George Mann - The Osiris Ritual (Newbury & Hobbes Investigations)

A Newbury & Hobbes Investigation

George Mann

The Osiris Ritual copyright 2009 George Mann

George Mann asserts the right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved

First edition

Proudly published in 2009 by

Snowbooks Ltd.

120 Pentonville Road

London

N1 9JN

www.snowbooks.com

www.whitemagazine.org

ISBN: 978-1-906727-048

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

www.snowbooks.com/georgemann

Printed and bound in the UK by J F Print Ltd., Sparkford, Somerset

Scanned By CrazyAl 2010

For Emily May Irene Mann

Thanks, as ever, must be extended to Emma Barnes and Liz Gorinsky for continued support. Also to Gordon Fletcher for superb pedantry, and to Jonas Eyles and Craig Caithness for goading him in the pub (and for making me feel better about losing every round of golf to them both). Mark Hodder kept me busy with inspirational reading matter, and Michael Rowley and Mark Newton debated the meaning of life over a number of excellent curries. Lou Anders shared in all of the highs and lows. And Fiona, James and Emily put up with me spending long hours locked away in the study when I really should have been doing something else.

George Mann is the author of The Affinity Bridge, Ghosts of Manhattan and The Human Abstract, as well as numerous short stories, novellas and an original Doctor Who audiobook. He has edited a number of anthologies including The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction, The Solaris Book of New Fantasy and a retrospective collection of Sexton Blake stories, Sexton Blake, Detective. He lives near Grantham with his wife, son and daughter.

London, February 1902

George Purefoy was running late.

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

Purefoy, catching his breath, slowed his pace to a steady walk. He attempted 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, and more, to attend the grand unveiling of his 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 of guests.

Much to the chagrin of his fellow reporters, Purefoy had been offered the assignment to cover the event for The Times, following the success of his recent piece about the revenant plague 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, he had taken matters into his own hands and instead set out on foot. Now, uncomfortable, damp and late, he was starting to wonder whether the assignment itself was actually more of a curse than the blessing it had at first appeared to be.

Purefoy quickened his step and made his way along the street towards the party. 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 certainly anxious to see what Lord Winthrop had brought back with him from the Middle East, and more specifically to bear witness to the unrolling of the Pharaoh himself.