Soon enough, Winthrop had exposed a large expanse of the mummy's wax-like flesh, part decayed and browned with age. It had taken on the appearance of beaten leather, hardened with exotic compounds and age. Winthrop had also extracted a number of small trinkets from within the wrappings: small jewels and talismans, a number of blue ushabti icons and a disc of gold, engraved with a series of intricate hieroglyphs. All the while, Newbury had stood watching on the sidelines impassively.
A few moments later, Winthrop had unrol ed everything but the head of the long-dead Egyptian. It was clear now that the body had been imperfectly preserved: the flesh had decayed it round the ribs, exposing the bones, and the hands were nothing but bony protrusions with the last remnants of human tissue stil attached. Sweating, Winthrop straightened his back and rubbed his hands together. It was clear he was now so involved in his task that he had almost forgotten about the multitude of people that stood around him, watching his every move. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper. "Now, we look on the face of our Pharaoh for the first time in four thousand years."
He gripped a loose flap of linen and began slowly unrol ing the wrappings around the mummy's head. After a moment it became evident that the cadaver still maintained wisps of thick, black hair on the crown of its head, as locks of the stuff fell loose as the bandages came away. No one spoke as the final strands of the linen were unravelled, finally revealing the Egyptian's face.
A woman screamed. Winthrop gave a visible shudder and stepped away from the mummy.
Purefoy looked on in horror. There were shouts from the back of the drawing room.
The dead man's face was a twisted visage of terror and agony. He was screaming, his mouth wide open in a silent, millennia-long cry. His features had been perfectly preserved, his eyes stitched shut with coarse threads, his brow furrowed in intense pain.
Newbury looked round at Purefoy, the shock evident on his face. "My God. He must have been mummified alive."
Purefoy felt bile rising in his gullet. He looked away.
Winthrop had removed his headgear and was standing back from the table, a deathly pallor to his cheeks. People were talking anxiously al around them. The other man from the expedition came forward and hurriedly covered the mummy with a white sheet. Arthur fetched Winthrop a brandy from a cabinet beside the fireplace. Guests began to spill back into the hallway, where the automatons were waiting with more drinks.
Newbury put a hand on Purefoy's arm. "Come along, dear chap. I think the party's over for tonight." They fol owed the other guests as they filed out into the grand hallway, Purefoy glancing back over his shoulder to see Winthrop shakily consuming his brandy in one long draw.
He turned to Newbury. "Not quite what I was expecting, I must admit."
Newbury smiled. "Nor I. Yet I can't help thinking that al of the clues were there. It was evident that there was something unusual about the burial, and now we have a mystery. There has to be a reason why that man was mummified alive." He met Purefoy's gaze, his eyes gleaming. "I do enjoy a good mystery, Mr. Purefoy."
Purefoy smiled. "Well, I think that's enough excitement for me, Sir Maurice. And I have an article to write for the morning edition." He glanced at his pocket watch. "I think I should be on my way."
Newbury nodded. "Very well, Mr. Purefoy. I suspect I shall do the same. It's been a pleasure to meet you. I'l look out for your article in The Times." He extended his hand, and Purefoy took it firmly.
"Likewise, Sir Maurice. I do hope we meet again." Newbury smiled. "Good evening then." He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Purefoy, an empty notebook in his pocket and a head swimming with images of the screaming dead man, straightened his jacket, took one last look around the thronging crowd and made his way slowly towards the exit and the street outside.
It was still raining. He hunched against the downpour, and set off for home. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter Two
The station concourse was bustling with people. Newbury watched as they rushed from pillar to post: men dressed In black and grey business suits and long, bil owing coats, brandishing hats and folded umbrellas; ladies standing in little huddles under the shelter of the impressive roof, attempting to avoid the inclement weather that was gusting in through the open doors, spattering the marble floor with fat droplets of rain.
Newbury stood on the platform, a copy of The Times tucked neatly under his left arm. He tapped his foot impatiently. Around him, the air was infused with the sharp tang of oil, heated by the machinations of wheels and gears as trains screeched in and out of the station. Engines sighed easily at other, nearby platforms, their carriages slowly disgorging passengers onto the concourse.
Steam hissed from pressure valves, fogging in the cold, damp air. He'd been there for thirty minutes, waiting for his quarry, and to his dismay had discovered a distinct lack of Interesting distractions.
Whilst waiting, Newbury had been considering the events of the previous evening, mul ing over the details of the things he'd seen, trying to ascertain what it was, specifically, that had made him uneasy about Winthrop's unrolling of the Theban mummy. It was certainly more than the revelation that the man had been mummified alive – much more than that – although the scene had indeed left him with a sharp sense of disquiet. And more also than the sheer lack of respect shown to both the dead man and the intricate craftsmanship of his casket. Newbury had been appal ed by the manner in which Winthrop had attacked the unrolling like a stage performance, but this in itself was nothing new or surprising; he'd seen any number of such events in the past, and had chosen to attend the party ful y cognisant of what he expected to see. No, it had more to do with the unfamiliarity of the decoration – the black and gold casket, the strange hieroglyphs – coupled with the manner in which the man had died. There was more to the dead man's story than was immediately obvious.
Newbury had pondered on this for a short time, before instead deciding that it was really far too early to be contemplating anything other than breakfast. Now, his stomach growling, he was growing impatient, keen to be done with his task. He checked his pocket watch. It was nearly half past seven. The train would be arriving soon.
He had made his way to Waterloo Station that morning to meet another agent, a man who was returning to London after spending a number of years undercover in St. Petersburg. He had no idea what this agent looked like, or, indeed, the man's real name. All he'd been offered was a codename,
"Caspian", a carriage number, 3b, and instructions to meet the man from the train and escort him immediately to the palace. It was certainly on of the more sedate tasks he had been required to carry out on behalf of the Crown, and he wondered briefly why one of Her Majesty's footmen couldn't have performed the task to equal y adequate effect. Yet, he admitted to himself begrudgingly, he was intrigued to discover more about the mysterious man. It was certainly no surprise to him to learn that Her Majesty had been managing agents abroad, in territories outside those of the Empire, but he had no notion of why the man's identity had to be protected in such a way, at least from another agent. Not only that, but it perplexed him why the man would choose to travel so far by rail, rather than airship. It must have added days, if not weeks to his journey, mostly spent in cramped, noisy accommodation. Perhaps that was what the man had grown used to in Russia, living undercover and shrugging off the veneer of wealth. He wondered how difficult the agent would find it to readjust to life back in London after so many years away, steeped in the routines and society of another culture. Of course, the thought was entirely redundant. He knew nothing of the man.