The Osiris Ritual Page 22

  Together, Newbury and Veronica agreed to walk the quayside in search of inspiration. Newbury was not hopeful that he would find it. That sense of impending chaos was still bearing down on him, still growing in force and magnitude. He had the notion that he was at the centre of a vast maelstrom, standing in the eye of the storm, looking out as everything went to pieces around him. Purefoy was dead, and Knox was free. Perhaps he needed help from Charles after all.

  They strolled along the water's edge, avoiding crates of stinking fish; fine silks from the East, spices, tobacco and any number of other goods being unloaded from the vessels that had moored along the quayside. Newbury scanned the faces in the crowds as they walked, until those faces became nothing but an indistinct human blur. So many people. If Knox had come here, Newbury understood why he had chosen the place. It would be easy to lose oneself amongst this vast cornucopia of nationalities and noise. Easy to adopt a false identity or to slip down a side street, or even to stow away aboard one of the great ships that towered over the harbour like behemoths in the morning light.

  His only clue, now, was that last, cryptic word that Ashford had muttered to him, before he'd slipped away into the darkness. Methuselah. Newbury turned it over and over in his mind. Methuselah. He knew the relevance of the word, the implication. He had studied the biblical texts as a schoolboy. It was clearly a reference to Knox, to Knox's plans. Methuselah was a watchword for longevity. He was the son of Enoch, who had lived for countless years in the early days of the Christian myth, his life supernaturally extended by the will of God. Newbury was not a religious man, and did not consider the Bible as literal truth, yet he knew there were more things in this world than those he could see, hear or touch, had even witnessed them himself on occasion. The supernatural realm was hidden only by a thin veil. Or so experience suggested. The line between science and the occult was thin and intangible. "Methuselah." He mouthed the word, speaking it aloud, trying to wring the meaning from it. He had come to a stop before a small, makeshift stall, behind which a burly man was selling cockles by the jar.

  Veronica, who had been staring out across the water, turned when she heard him speak. "Methuselah?"

  Newbury nodded. "Yes, yes." He sighed. "The last word that Ashford spoke to me before we parted company."

  Veronica's eyes widened. "Methuselah... Ashford said that to you?"

  "Indeed. Clearly he was referring to Knox."

  "Yes! Sir Maurice, I believe he was. But look!" He followed the line of her finger towards a small boat, bobbing gently with the lap of the water against the harbour wall. It was a bizarre craft, a submersible, capable, Newbury assumed, of spending extended periods beneath the water. It had the look of a small ironclad about it: all metal plates and reinforced glass portholes, with a tall funnel that would remain above water when the vessel dived, providing a source of air for the inhabitants. There was a wooden deck, surrounded by a short rail, and a sealable hatch for climbing down into the habitable space below. An extendable periscope jutted rudely from the deck. Submersibles such as this were rare, and Newbury had only seen one or two of them in his lifetime. Presently, this one sat afloat in the harbour, sandwiched between two larger boats, and was tied to a mooring post on the quayside nearby. On the side of the vessel, in small, black letters was the legend: METHUSELAH.

  Newbury turned to Veronica. "You don't think..."

  Veronica nodded. "It makes sense. It must be Knox's ship."

  Newbury couldn't prevent himself from grinning. "So that's how he intends to get away. Underwater. Come on!" He ran along the harbour edge, careful not to trip or lose his footing. Veronica followed close on his heels.

  The prow of the vessel was around three feet from the edge of the harbour. Murky river water sloshed in the space between. Glancing back over his shoulder to ensure Veronica was still following behind, Newbury readied himself and then sprang from the edge of the harbour towards the small deck of the Methuselah. He landed with a dull thud. Turning, he held his arms out towards Veronica, willing her to jump. "Come on! That bang may have alerted him. We need to move quickly."

  Veronica regarded the jump with trepidation. Then, shrugging, she fixed her eyes on Newbury, bent her knees and leapt forward. In her haste she nearly overshot, but Newbury was able to catch her firmly, staggering back a few paces before setting her down beside him. Their faces were only inches apart. He could hear her ragged breath. "Are you ready?"

  "I'm ready."

  There was a choking sound from deep beneath them, followed by a long, mechanical purr. The Methuselah began to gently vibrate. Newbury's and Veronica's eyes met. "He's started the engines. He must have heard us. We need to move, fast. If he dives, we're done for. We need to get inside." Newbury moved quickly. He shot around the deck, searching out the hatch that would allow them both access to the decks below. It was nothing but a round hole in the decking, covered by a thick metal lip and a rubber seal. Crouching, Newbury ran his fingers around the edge of it until he had located the catch. He pulled it free, and the metal plate eased open on a creaking hinge, revealing a steel ladder that disappeared into the shadowy depths below.

  Veronica stepped forward. "I'll go first."

  Newbury shook his head. "No, Miss Hobbes. I'll go first." His voice was firm.

  Swinging himself down, his feet catching on the metal rungs, he began his swift descent of the ladder. Moments later, Veronica followed suit, pulling the hatch closed behind her. Their feet echoed in the confined space as they climbed.

  Below, they found themselves in a small antechamber, which branched off in three different directions. The decor was functional, at best; the walls and doorways consisted of grey, featureless steel. Everything was quiet, aside from the gentle slapping of the water against the sides of the boat. There was a light, pleasant aroma, such as that of burning incense, lavender and rosemary.

  Newbury looked around for something he could use as a weapon, but could find nothing. Giving up on that idea, he decided to follow his instincts. "This way." He whispered to Veronica, nodding towards the prow of the vessel. Cautiously, they edged their way through the small opening, careful to ensure that their footsteps did not immediately give away their position. Newbury kept his back to the wall. They crept further into the depths of the ship.

  The small passageway terminated in an open doorway. Newbury peered through the opening. On the other side of the bulkhead was the main cabin. It was a relatively small space, with a single bunk, a square table fixed to one wall, and another open hatchway, which he supposed led through to the control pit. The room was sparsely furnished, but nevertheless cluttered with books, jars and strange artefacts, in much the same manner as Newbury's Chelsea study, but filled also with the paraphernalia of normal life: clothes, a top hat, a pocket watch laid out on the table. The bedclothes were ruffled, slept in. This place, this boat — not only was it Knox's means of escape, it appeared also to be his home.

  The scene on the floor told an even more bizarre tale. A large pentagram had been marked out with string, pinned to the floor within a large circle. Between each of the five points of the star lay a curled, aged fragment of papyrus, each of them covered in an inky black scrawl. These, Newbury presumed, were the contents of the ushabti figures that Knox had fought so hard to obtain. The last words of Khemosiri. The instructions for how to perform the Osiris Ritual.

  At the centre of the pentagram were arranged three tall, glass phials, filled once again with the brown, brackish fluid that Knox had extracted from the brains of the women he had killed. Aside from this there was a jar of thick, gelatinous blood, the clay effigy of a man, rudely formed, and a leather-bound book which lay open to reveal bright, illuminated pages. There was no sign of Knox.

  Gesturing silently to Veronica to follow, Newbury stepped carefully over the threshold, dipping his head carefully to avoid banging it on the bulkhead. He heard Veronica steal in behind him. "What now?" she whispered.

  "Now, my dear Miss Hobbes, you listen to me." Th
e voice was a familiar, sensuous purr. As if on cue, Aubrey Knox appeared in the doorway of the submersible's control pit. He was dressed in an immaculate black dinner suit and was wearing a scabbarded sword on his left hip. In his left hand, he bore a pistol, and his scarred left eye twinkled as he regarded the two investigators. His right hand was bandaged where Newbury had run it through at the theatre. He was about to launch into another oratory, when Newbury launched himself forward, carelessly trampling the delicately arranged ritual on the floor. He charged towards Knox with wild abandon, driven by a fiery passion for revenge. Grasping Knox's gun arm at the wrist, he twisted the weapon away from him whilst bringing his other fist down hard against the side of Knox's head. Knox had not expected such a bold move, and he floundered under the impact of the blow, his finger twitching, firing off a shot over his shoulder, which pinged off the toughened glass of the Methuselah's viewing port, causing a spidery crack to open in the glass.

  "Fool!" Knox shouted as he kicked out at Newbury, catching him hard in the calf and causing his leg to buckle. Newbury stuttered backwards and Knox swung the gun round in a fierce arc, cracking the butt of the weapon into Newbury's temple. Pain ignited in Newbury's skull. Lights danced before his eyes. He tumbled to the ground, disorientated, unable to prevent his fall. Knox kicked him once more, this time hard in the gut, and then turned the pistol on Veronica. He pulled the trigger.

  There was a loud report, that seemed to echo throughout the entire ship, and Newbury rolled to the side in horror to see blood spray in a wide arc from Veronica's back, spattering the wall as she screamed in pain, the front of her jacket stained by a spreading blot of crimson. She collapsed in a heap, whimpering with pain.

  Numb with shock, Newbury turned to find himself staring down the barrel of Knox's gun. The rogue doctor was grinning. He didn't need to say anything; the look in his eyes did the gloating for him. Newbury knew he couldn't move in time. Knox's finger squeezed the trigger. The chamber clicked round in its housing...

  ...and stopped. It must have jammed.

  Newbury tried to scramble to his feet, but Knox struck out again, whacking him hard across the back of the head with the gun, before tossing it, frustrated, into the control pit. By this time the vessel was beginning its slow dive, and water was lapping at the bottom of the portholes. The crack, caused by the errant shot, was beginning to groan. Soon the water pressure would cause it to give in altogether, flooding the vessel with river water. It would sink like a stone.

  Newbury needed, to get to Veronica. All he could think about was helping Veronica. But stars were still dancing before his eyes. He shook his head. He heard footsteps. Knox was standing over him. "What a terrible disappointment." The former agent spat at him in disgust. Then more footsteps, followed by the sound of Knox mounting the ladder in the antechamber. Let the bastard get away. There would be more opportunities in the future. For now, he needed to get Veronica to safety before she bled to death or drowned. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, his head spinning. He got to his feet, shakily, and crossed the cabin. Veronica lay unconscious, a dark pool of blood forming all around her. He hoped he wasn't already too late.

  —— Chapter Twenty-Four ——

  Groggily, Newbury stumbled across the lurching vessel towards Veronica. She was a mess. There was blood everywhere, staining her clothes, spattered over her face, pooling on the deck beneath her. He stooped over her and she stirred, semi-conscious. He dropped to his knees, scooping her up and cradling her in his arms. "Oh, Veronica..." He held her like that for a moment, his heart breaking. Then, suddenly realising that he needed to act, he stood, carrying her across to the daybed, where he propped her upright, trying to keep her wound higher than her heart. Cautiously, he examined her injury. The bullet seemed to have torn directly through her shoulder, leaving a ragged, open exit wound from which blood was gushing freely. "Hold on. Hold on, Veronica. You're going to be all right." He grabbed the lapels of her mauve jacket and wrenched it open, popping the buttons. He took up a fistful of her blouse and used both hands to tear off a long strip, exposing the alabaster-coloured skin of her midriff. He wrapped the strip of fabric around her shoulder and bound it tight, trying to compress the wound. She cried out in pain as he applied pressure, and her eyes blinked open, searching for him frantically.

  "I'm here. I'm here, Veronica."

  The shock, the pain and the loss of blood were evident in her eyes. She was unable to focus. "Newbury..." was all she could manage, her voice weak, tiny bubbles of blood forming on her lips as she mouthed the word.

  Newbury tried to fight the rising sense of panic that was gripping him, making it harder to breathe. He had recovered a little from the blows he'd received to the head and adrenaline was coursing riotously through his veins, causing his hands to shake. He glanced over his shoulder, trying to get a measure of their situation. Knox had fled. Newbury had heard him scramble up the ladder and out onto the deck a few moments earlier, ditching the sinking vessel. The remnants of the Osiris Ritual were scattered across the floor, disturbed in the scuffle, but the vials of brown liquid were gone. The boat's engines were still roaring. He heard a splintering crack. In the control pit, the fractured glass of the viewing port was splitting open under the pressure of the water. Newbury realised with shock that the Methuselah was nearly completely submerged. The glass would give way soon, allowing the river water to flood in. Not only that, but he guessed that Knox would have left the hatch open as he fled. If the upper deck of the vessel were to dip beneath the surface, there would be no stopping the onslaught of water, and their only route of escape would be blocked.

  Newbury put his hand on Veronica's cheek. She was icy cold. "Stay with me, Veronica. Hold on."

  Jumping to his feet, Newbury dashed towards the control pit. The vessel's control system made no sense to him whatsoever. Dials, levers, knobs; he had no idea where to start. He grabbed the nearest thing at hand, a lever that had been cranked forward and which he hoped controlled the speed of the dive. He needed to reverse the direction of the ship. He pulled it back, fully, and felt the Methuselah judder as the engines whined, shifting into reverse. Triumphantly, he stepped back from the controls, only to see his relief dashed almost immediately. The crack in the glass had now extended across the whole of the viewing port, a vast spider's web with a small impact crater at its epicentre, where the stray bullet had struck home. Tiny beads of water were beginning to form along the fracture lines. Beyond, he could see nothing but dirty, swirling river water.

  He had to get out of there, had to get Veronica out of there. He dashed back into the main cabin. "Veronica? Miss Hobbes!" He knelt, turning her head from side to side, but it lolled pathetically. "Veronica!" It was no use. She was fading fast. He was going to have to carry her. He bent low and placed his hands under her arms, heaving her up onto his shoulder, careful not to exacerbate her wound. She gave a low moan. The makeshift bandage was holding, but blood was still seeping through, pattering to the floor. He realised his hands were covered in it. He had to get her to a surgeon, quickly. He couldn't lose her. Not Veronica.

  There was a loud bang from somewhere up above, the sound of metal striking metal, as something heavy landed on the upper deck of the vessel. The whole ship shook, rocking from side to side with the impact. He heard Knox cry out in dismay, although the words themselves were lost, swallowed by the incessant roar of the engines. The reply was unmistakable, however: the dry, metallic croak of William Ashford, calling the name of his eternal opponent. "Knox!"

  So, Knox hadn't yet been able to get away. Newbury had lost all sense of time.

  He steadied himself with a deep breath. His burden safely secured on his shoulder, Newbury rushed to the ladder in the antechamber. The space was small, and he had to be sure not to knock Veronica's head against the wall as he mounted the first rung of the ladder. He began to climb, using one hand to haul himself upwards, the other hand wrapped safely around the waist of his unconscious assistant. The going was tough, bu
t he made steady progress, driven on by the sounds of the scuffle from above: a sword striking metal and the grunting of the two men, locked in deadly combat.

  Below, the glass pane finally gave way with a splintering crack, and water began to gush into the main cabin. He didn't have long. Newbury knew that. Soon the weight of the water would overwhelm the power of the engines and the Methuselah would resume its slow, ponderous course towards the bottom of the river. He was resolute, however. He would get Veronica to safety. This ship would not become their tomb. He pressed on.

  Newbury emerged from the open hatch to find himself grasping at water. It was lapping at the lip of the hatch, about to start streaming over the side, into the vessel itself. The Methuselah had almost completely submerged, its upper deck sloshing in water as it listed from side to side, its paddle engines straining against the sheer weight of the water that was flooding into the main cabin below. Gasping as the cold water slapped him in the face, Newbury struggled to pull himself and Veronica out of the hatch and onto the unstable deck above. He knew he was exposed, but a quick glance reassured him that Knox was already occupied. The doctor had drawn his sabre and was facing off against the hulking figure of Ashford, who had now abandoned his torn, tattered cloak and had his arms outstretched, taking sweeping blows at the other man. The remains of his discarded cloak drifted away lazily with the gentle current of the river, like a puddle of spilt ink.