"Other than a corpse that proves that they did not achieve their goal."
Renwick laughed. "Quite so." He took a long draw on his cigarette, watching the smoke plume lazily around him as he exhaled. "That wasn't the point I was getting at, though."
Newbury nodded. "Indeed. I understood your reasoning. If there were others who believed in the ritual then, there may be others who believe in the ritual now."
Renwick's lips curled in a satisfied smile. "Exactly so. The man who killed Lord Winthrop may have been looking for the secrets of the ritual. I doubt very much that Winthrop himself had an understanding of what he'd found."
"No. He didn't." Newbury leaned back in the chair, resting his chin on his fist. It was impossible to second-guess Ashford's motives. He'd spent five years living a half-life in St. Petersburg, kept alive by the machines that Dr. Fabian had instal ed inside his broken body. Had he turned? Was he working for the Russian government? Or had he spent the time looking for ways to regain the life he'd once had, turning to the occult in desperation? Perhaps he thought this "Osiris Ritual" would somehow restore his body to its former state. Only finding him and bringing him in would provide Newbury with the answers.
Newbury looked across at Renwick. "Do you know of anyone else who might have a notion of this link? Between Winthrop's mummy and the tale of Khemosiri, I mean."
Renwick looked thoughtful. He considered his answer for a moment. "No. I might have named you, if the circumstances had been different. But I can think of no other, in London, at least, who would have access to the necessary texts. It's not the sort of thing one would happen across in an academic journal." He paused, rapping his knuckles on the workbench. "You might consider discussing the matter with Wilfred Blake, one of the men who aided Lord Winthrop during the expedition. I doubt he'll give you anything new, but I understand he has an appetite for al things mystical."
Newbury raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?" That certainly shed a different light on the man he'd seen arguing with Winthrop during the unrolling party. Perhaps his ironclad alibi wasn't as secure as it had at first appeared to the Yard? He'd taken the liberty of obtaining Blake's address, along with those of the other members of the expedition, from Charles the previous evening. He'd been considering paying Blake a visit that afternoon, and it now appeared he had another good reason to do so. He downed the remains of his tea and leaned forward, placing the empty cup and saucer on the workbench. "Thank you, Aldous. I believe you've been of great service to me today."
The other man chuckled, sprinkling the ash from the end of his cigarette carelessly onto the floor. "Never any trouble, old man." He sighed. "There is one thing you could do for me, though."
"Name it."
"Can I see it?"
Newbury smirked. "I'm sure it can be arranged. Just as soon as Winthrop's funerary arrangements are finalised."
Renwick nodded in appreciation.
Newbury stood, col ecting his coat and hat. On an afterthought, he turned towards Renwick.
"What of Aubrey Knox?"
Renwick seemed to freeze on the spot. He turned slowly to offer Newbury a wary look. "What of him?"
"He casts a long shadow, is all."
Renwick looked somewhat relieved. "Knox is gone, Newbury. He's not mixed up in this. If he were, I'd smell it."
Newbury gave one short nod of acknowledgement. "Thank you once again, Aldous. I can find my own way out."
Renwick was already fumbling with his tobacco pouch, intent on rollihg himself another cigarette. He didn't look up again as Newbury, bracing himself for the cold, clicked the inner door shut behind him and took his leave.
Chapter Thirteen
Arbury House, Regent's Park, was exactly the kind of respectable, middle-class address that Newbury expected a successful bachelor such as Wilfred Blake to keep. It was a large, austere building, a Georgian edifice: square, with tall sash windows and a feature entrance. It was, Newbury considered, a fine example of the less ostentatious architecture of a time that had now passed.
These days, it was difficult to avoid the horrors of the neo-gothic, and one risked facing gargoyles and other grotesques at every turn.
Clearing his throat, Newbury examined the row of brass address plaques on the wall, and then rapped the knocker with three sharp bursts. He stepped back onto the street, awaiting the attention of the doorman.
To the casual passer-by, Arbury House had the air of a large townhouse about it, but on closer inspection it became apparent that the house was in fact divided into a number of smaller -but no less desirable – apartments. Wilfred Blake, Newbury gleaned from the address plaques, had taken up residence in apartment number six.
Newbury waited for a moment longer, and then stepped forward and rapped the knocker again.
This time he called out. "Hello?" There was no response. "Hel o?" Shrugging to himself, Newbury tried the handle. It turned. He pushed the door open, surprised by the weight of it, and stepped inside, clicking it carefully shut behind him.
If the exterior of the house had seemed impressive, the hal way proved even more so. The foyer was expansive and well lit by a series of large sash windows in the south wall. The afternoon light spilled through these in long, lazy shafts, picking out the dust motes that swirled chaotically in the air. The floor was tiled in black and white Minton, and a huge staircase curled up to the next floor, and beyond. It was startlingly quiet, save for the barely audible strains of someone playing a violin elsewhere in the building. There was no sign of any doorman.
Newbury searched around. He could see the stairway to the basement levels, and doors to apartments one to five. Blake's residence was obviously on the first floor. He took to the stairs, admiring the portraits that lined the wall as he climbed. The people represented there were obviously members of the owner's family, going back, he guessed, over a hundred years. Their baleful faces watched him as his footsteps rang out on the marble steps.
The first floor landing was a mirror image of the hallway below. The staircase continued up to a second floor, and a series of doors, all painted royal blue, suggested that the floor plan of the apartments on this level matched precisely those of the apartments beneath. Newbury crossed the landing towards the door marked with a brass number "6". A few feet from the door, however, he stopped short. From the angle of his approach he could see that the door had been left slightly ajar.
Stepping carefully across the landing, walking on the balls of his feet to ensure that his footsteps were not heard, Newbury edged closer to the door. He stopped just before the threshold, hovering in the hal way. The door stood open by just a couple of inches, but it was enough to cause Newbury to hesitate. Why would Blake have left the door open in such a manner? More likely, an intruder wanted to ensure a quick getaway without the need to fumble with a lock. He put his head close to the opening and listened. There were sounds of someone moving around inside: papers being shuffled, drawers being opened.
What if someone had broken into Blake's apartment? Newbury realised he would have to tread carefully. He was unarmed and alone, and he hadn't told anyone where he was going that afternoon.
If he found himself in a difficult spot, he'd only have his wits to get him out of it.