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The Osiris Ritual

A Newbury & Hobbes Investigation

Tom Doherty Associates

LONDON, FEBRUARY 1902

George Purefoy was running late.

The young reporter hurtled down the street, his notebook clutched tightly in his hand. He dodged 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 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 windows, and even from here, a good hundred feet away, the noise of the party spilled out, a cacophony of chatter in the otherwise quiet London evening.

Purefoy, catching his breath, slowed his pace to a steady walk. He tried 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. It would also be the grand unveiling of Lord Winthrop's 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.

Much to the chagrin of his fellow reporters, Purefoy had been assigned to cover the event for The Times, following the success of his recent piece about the revenant plague — a disease from India that had terrorised the slums sincebefore Christmas — 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, Purefoy had taken matters into his own hands and set out on foot. Now, uncomfortable, damp, and late, he was starting to wonder whether the assignment was more of a curse than the blessing it had at first appeared to be.

Purefoy quickened his step. 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 anxious to see what Lord Winthrop had brought back with him from the Middle East, and, most of all, 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 step out of a private carriage and enter the party before him. She smiled graciously 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 a little crumpled and damp. Sighing, he patted his pockets and located the invitation. 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.

"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 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 in amazement. It was like nothing he'd seen 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 and filled with the most wondrous gilded treasures from the tomb of the mummified king. People milled around these cabinets, drinks in hand, cooing appreciatively and 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 silk, brandishing their drinks like talismans. 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. He looked up at the gallery and noted that Lord Winthrop himself was resting against the balustrade, surveying the scene below. He was sporting a wide grin. When he spotted Purefoy looking at him he gave the reporter a little wave, 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, when the lord had visited the offices of The Times the prior week to discuss an exclusive on the finds with his editor. He was a gregarious sort of chap with a welcoming manner, but Purefoy was not so naïve as to miss the fact that the only reason Winthrop was making a beeline towards him 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. Purefoy 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's 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. "It has a brass framework of unsightly cogs and things underneath, but a porcelain veneer over the top, designed to order. I had these 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 onto its pedestal beside its fellows. He studied it for a moment, unnerved by how easily it had blended once again into the background, becoming nothing but another immobile exhibit. He repressed a shudder then turned to Winthrop, who he realised had been talking at him for some time.

"... and there are Lord and Lady Buchanan, talking to Sir David and his wife. Oh yes, and there's Sir Maurice Newbury, examining some of the ushabti in that glass cabinet over there. Perfect timing, 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 Purefoy through the crowd towards a man who was standing alone at 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. When he came out from behind the cabinet, Purefoy had the opportunity to see him properly. He was dressed in a fitted black suit with a 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 midthirties, but he could have been older.

Newbury 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." He stopped, suddenly, looking up to see Purefoy standing off to one side, sipping champagne. "Oh. How terribly impolite of me." He stepped over towards Purefoy and extended his hand. "Please forgive me, Mr....?"

"Purefoy. George Purefoy."

"Please forgive me, Mr. Purefoy. It's just that 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. Clearly, 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. It rather hinges on what I think of 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 overzealously — 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 on the other side of the room. Purefoy stepped aside to let him pass and smiled as Winthrop's genial 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 his champagne. "Now, have they given you any notion about what's really going on in this room?"

Purefoy frowned. "I'm not quite sure I 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 came 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 dressed in 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 to 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."

"Priest? I thought it was a pharaoh?"

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Excerpted from The Osiris Ritual by George Mann. Copyright © 2010 George Mann. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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