The Osiris Ritual (16 page)

Alfonso stepped back and rubbed his hand across his chin, thoughtful y regarding his handiwork. He smiled. Veronica took this as her cue to approach. Making no attempt to hide her presence, she descended the stairs at the back of the hal and passed along one of the aisles, her boots echoing loudly on the wooden steps. Alfonso turned to watch her approach, a surprised look on his face. He clearly wasn’t expecting any visitors. Veronica was a picture of professionalism.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Alfonso. My name is Miss Veronica Hobbes. You may recall we met earlier in the week?”

Alfonso narrowed his eyes and offered her a disdainful look. “Indeed. I recall your visit. But Miss Hobbes, unfortunately it seems that this evening you have wasted a trip. The theatre is closed. I fear I must ask you to leave.”

Veronica smiled. “Ah, well. I’m afraid it’s not quite as simple as all that. I have some further questions for you, regarding Miss Rebecca Irlam.”

“Who?” Alfonso furrowed his brow. Then, as if realisation had suddenly dawned on him, he nodded in acknowledgement. “Ah, yes, the girl who went missing from the theatre on her way home last night. A sad affair. I’ve already given all the information I have to the police.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Now, I’m sure you’ll understand that I’m a busy man. If I can ask you to be on your way. .” He turned away from her, examining the hilt of the sword, which was still protruding from the brim of the hat on the table.

Veronica stepped closer to the stage. Her eyes were hard, and they gleamed in the harsh electric light, as she mounted the smal set of steps that led to the platform where Alfonso was standing. She hadn’t noticed on her previous visit how high the stage itself was raised from the floor.

She regarded the magician. The set of her jaw was firm and unyielding. Her blood was up. “Mr.

Alfonso. For what reason has the show been cancel ed this evening? I should have imagined it represents a great deal of lost revenue. Surely you are not ending your run at the Archibald prematurely? It appears to have been a magnificent success.”

Alfonso looked sheepish. “Something like that,” he muttered under his breath. Veronica stepped forward, closer to him now. “Look, Miss Hobbes, I assure you that the disappearance of this woman has nothing to do with me!” He was flustered now.

“Ah, so you didn’t make her vanish on stage last night, then?”

He was growing increasingly agitated. “Not that disappearance. The one that happened later, after she had already left the theatre.”

“It sounds like you’re splitting hairs to me.” Veronica put her hand on her hip. “Mr. Alfonso — or whatever your real name is — I suggest that quite the opposite is true. That you had everything to do with the disappearance of Miss Rebecca Irlam, as well as any number of other young women, such as Miss Cordelia Fletcher, Miss Jane Eyles, or, indeed, Miss Sophia Caithness. Girls you spirited away from towns all over the Home Counties before bringing your illusionist show to the capital. Can we forgo the pretence now, Mr. Alfonso?”

Alfonso looked shaken. He stepped back, edging away from Veronica. “Look, I really must ask you to leave now. I’m afraid I cannot help you with your enquiries.” It was clear to Veronica that she had him cornered. The guilt was evident in his eyes, written in the signs of panic that had suddenly gripped him. “But surely, you were here just the other evening, Miss Hobbes? You saw a young lady disappear on stage and enquired of her wellbeing after the performance. Did she not make it home safe and well?”

Veronica smiled. “Yes, and that’s the clever part, isn’t it? They don’t all disappear. That would be far too obvious, and you are much cleverer than that. Any number of young women have taken part in your disappearing act, whisked away before a large audience. And many of them you set free, to minimise suspicion.” She paused. “What is it that you are looking for? What makes you choose one girl as a victim, over another?”

Alfonso glanced nervously from side to side, unsure how to respond. He stepped backwards, stumbling as the back of his knee encountered the large wooden rack of swords that had been placed on the stage as part of his act. He jumped as the rack clattered noisily to the floor. He glanced down at the mess around his feet. Then, realising that his options were swiftly diminishing, he reached down for one of the swords and came up again in a crouching position. Without hesitation, he swung the sword deftly in Veronica’s direction.

Veronica moved quickly. She’d been trained for this sort of situation. She leapt backwards, away from the tip of the blade, as it swept past her in a wide arc, narrowly missing her breast. Alfonso grinned. He stabbed forward, and Veronica twisted away, causing his thrust to fall short. It was immediately clear to her that Alfonso was no brawler. He was lacking the finesse, the confidence.

She stepped forward, grasping hold of Alfonso’s outstretched wrist with her right hand, twisting it hard and causing him to yelp and release the sword, which clattered loudly to the floor. With her left hand, she jabbed out, striking him sharply on the chin. He staggered backwards, but Veronica, stil retaining a grip on his sword arm, did not allow him to push away, returning for another quick jab to his face. By now, panic had entirely gripped the magician, and he must have realised he was fighting for his life. If Veronica was able to prove his connection to the missing girls — of which she had no doubt — Alfonso would surely swing from a taut noose.

Alfonso kicked out hard at Veronica’s ankles, attempting to unbalance her. The blow struck home, but Veronica was too deft on her feet to tumble. She danced away, releasing her grip on his arm and wincing at the smiting pain of the blow. She kept her eye on Alfonso, trying to judge his next move. A change had come over him. He looked desperate, animalistic, even. His mouth was set in a grim sneer, his dark eyes seemingly boring holes right to the back of her skull as they met each other’s glare. Shuddering, Veronica skipped forward and aimed a blow at the man’s chin. She was fast, and she struck home, not giving him any chance to respond. His head twisted awkwardly to one side with the force of the impact. Blood was trickling down his chin from a split lip.

Veronica stepped back. She knew she needed to bring him down quickly, incapacitate him so that she could call for the police. Alfonso, however, was not giving up easily. He was like a cornered bear, and he lashed out, his bony fingers clawing at her face. She felt his nails biting painfully into her cheek, and she gasped as he raked them across her face, drawing bloody welts. Drawing ragged breath, she battered his arms away and kicked out at him in an attempt to maintain some distance.

If she let him in too close, she feared he may manage to overbear her. She caught him forcefully in the upper thigh and he fel back, stooping low and cursing loudly. “You filthy whore!”

Veronica rushed him as he was still bent low from the blow to his leg. She drove her fist hard into his gut. He creased, choking as the wind was driven out of him, doubling over at the waist. He clutched at his belly. Veronica saw her chance. She clutched at the straggly hair at the back of his head and brought her knee up, connecting resoundingly with his face. His nose burst with a sickening crunch, spreading a fountain of dark, red blood into the air and staining her culottes.

Alfonso gave a pitiful wail and sank to the floor. He was panting, spitting blood, pawing at his broken face. Veronica stepped back, looking down at the sorrowful wretch. Alfonso looked up at her. He was giggling like a lunatic.

“What? What is it?” Veronica was disconcerted by the sudden outburst. There was no reply, other than more of the insane laughter. She could only conclude that his mind had final y broken under the strain. She cast around, looking for a length of rope or fabric she could use to bind him whilst she fetched the police. She stepped towards the round table at the centre of the stage, where Alfonso’s upturned hat and sword were still in situ. The pitch of the man’s bizarre giggling increased.

The noise was like insects crawling up and down her spine; like nails being dragged across a dry blackboard. She gave an involuntary shudder. Still, she had him, finally, and as soon as she had bound him and arranged for the police to detain him, it would be over. No more missing girls.

She examined the hat, glancing back at Alfonso to ensure that he hadn’t decided to risk his chance to escape whilst her back was turned. He was still clutching at his bleeding face, but he glowered back at her, almost expectantly. She had the feeling she was somehow missing something.

Then, with one sudden, unexpected movement, he flung himself to the right, slamming the heel of his hand down hard against the wooden stage. He must have hit a pressure paddle, for, to Veronica’s astonishment, the ground beneath her feet suddenly gave way, and before she could react — before she could even fling her arms out to brace herself — she was falling.

She landed — hard — feeling her legs give way beneath her. The hatch in the stage through which she had fal en clicked tightly shut above her, throwing her into impenetrable darkness. She could still hear Alfonso’s mad laughter echoing in the auditorium above. Veronica tested the space around her. She was encased within some kind of casket or coffin-shaped box. It was made of rough, untreated wood, and it splintered against her palms as she slapped at the sides of it, frustrated and scared. She thrashed out in every direction, trying to find some means of escape. But the box would not give.

She kicked, testing the floor, and she noticed that there was something at her feet. She reached down, as best she could in the confined space. Cloth. Bundles of heavy cloth. She frowned in the darkness. And then, with rising panic, she realised what they were: the rags had been soaked with chloroform. There was no mistaking the sickly-sweet perfume of the drug. She didn’t have long before the fumes would overwhelm her.

Something creaked beneath the box, and Veronica felt it judder. She fell awkwardly to one side.

The box began to move.

She could feel it rol ing downwards, further underground. It must have been on castors, triggered by the introduction of her weight. This was clearly the mechanism that Alfonso had used to cause the women to disappear during his act. The chloroform explained why the girls who were later freed were left dazed and disorientated. And the girls who weren’t freed. . Veronica tried not to think of that.

She had no idea what to do. She was trapped beneath the stage, trapped in a narrow wooden box that was creeping inexorably towards an unknown destination, where Alfonso was likely waiting for her, his motives still unclear. This time, there was no one to save her. She cursed herself for not listening to Sir Maurice. Nobody knew she was there. She had to face facts. Her time was running out. If she didn’t find a way out soon, she’d likely die in the casket, or worse. She cal ed out, knowing it was a useless endeavour. The only person there to hear her was her captor.

The floral scent of the chloroform became overbearing. Veronica felt her senses fogging. She knew she had to fight it, knew that whatever happened, she couldn’t al ow herself to be overcome.

She had no idea what Alfonso may have in store for her if she did. She gasped for breath. But her fate, under the circumstances, was inevitable. The casket continued its slow descent.

Soon, darkness overcame her.

Newbury barrel ed around the corner of Blake’s drawing room, ful y expecting to be confronted by a large man, clad in a thick black cloak, rifling through Blake’s belongings. What he actually found, however, was a younger, more diminutive fel ow, dressed in a brown corduroy jacket and slacks. The other man turned, startled, when he heard Newbury burst into the room.

“Ah! Sir Maurice! Thank goodness you’re here. I was about to send for the police.”

“Purefoy! What the devil.. ” Newbury lowered his guard, but only fractionally. He glanced at the corpse on the floor, spattered in blood, and then back at the young reporter.

Purefoy looked sheepish. “I. . I can explain!”

Newbury regarded him. Could it real y be that this young man was mixed up in these murders?

He thought it unlikely. But Newbury had now found Purefoy hovering at the scene of two of the crimes. What was his connection to the dead men? Newbury couldn’t, at this stage, discount his involvement. He hoped it was only a journalist’s instinct that had led the reporter to the murder scenes. There were questions that needed Answers. “Mr. Purefoy, this is the second time I’ve encountered you in less than salubrious situations. I think it is time we had another of our little discussions.” Purefoy nodded, a serious expression on his face. “So, tell me — how do you come to be in the apartment of a murdered man, searching through his belongings in such a manner?”

Purefoy dropped the sheaf of papers he was holding onto the rosewood writing desk that stood against the far wall, and crossed the room, coming to stand before Newbury. Blake’s belongings were scattered everywhere: everything from fine antiquities to old editions of The Times.

“Did you make this mess?”

“No! Not at all. It was like this when I entered the apartment. I found the place in this terrible mess. The kil er was evidently searching for something, just like he had been at Lord Winthrop’s place.”

Newbury sighed. “Hmmm. Let’s just slow down a little, before you jump to that kind of conclusion.”

“What conclusion?” Purefoy looked a little bemused.

“That the person who murdered Lord Winthrop is the same person responsible for. . this.” He grimaced as he glanced down at Blake’s body, on the hearth before the fireplace just a few feet from where he was standing. He cleared his throat, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “So, tell me, what was the purpose of your visit?”

“I came to interview Wilfred Blake — about the expedition, you understand. And Winthrop’s murder. I wanted to see if he had any comments. If he felt his own life might have been in danger. .”

He trailed off as he realised the weight of his own words. He met Newbury’s unwavering gaze. He sighed. “To be truthful, Sir Maurice, I hoped to discover whether Mr. Blake had any real notion of what had happened to Lord Winthrop.”