The Osiris Ritual (19 page)

Newbury looked around for signs of Ashford. The fog was thickening, but even so, he was shocked to see, a little further along the rooftop, the familiar red eyes of the augmented man staring back at him. Newbury could barely believe it. Why had he waited? Perhaps he wanted to be sure that Newbury and Purefoy were gone? Perhaps Purefoy had been right, and he intended to head back to Blake’s apartment before Newbury was able to alert the police? Regardless, he couldn’t waste the opportunity.

“Ashford!” The other man’s head turned, and Newbury could no longer see his face beneath the darkness of his cowl. “Ashford, we must talk.” Newbury rushed forward, and as he drew closer, the situation became quickly apparent. Ashford was perched on the corner of the building, his heavy cloak draped over his shoulders, giving him an ethereal, formless appearance in the foggy darkness.

Across from him, the buildings to the side and rear were both taller — at least a storey higher than the factory on which they were standing — and the leap across to either was impossible, even for an augmented giant such as Ashford. Newbury smiled. He had him. He knew, this time, he had him.

Digging deep for every last reserve of his strength, he thundered forward towards his quarry.

Ashford seemed to respond to this with an air of calm acceptance. He turned away from the approaching Newbury, stepping up careful y onto the raised lip of the roof. He seemed to be judging the distance to the bottom of the al eyway, far below, but Newbury knew there would be nothing to see but a thick river of fog. Ashford inched closer to the edge.

Suddenly, Newbury got a measure of the man’s intention. Ashford meant to jump. He bel owed across the roof. “No! Don’t do it, man! You’ll fall to your death!”

Ashford, however, seemed not to hear him. With one last glance over his shoulder, the rogue agent leapt suddenly into the air.

Newbury darted towards the edge of the building, in time to see Ashford’s black, fluttering cloak billow out like some obscene wing, as the man soared out into the gap between the two buildings, plummeting down into the milky abyss. Surely the drop would kil him?

Newbury gave an involuntary wince at the sound of Ashford impacting against the cobbles below. There was a sickening crunch — as of metal striking stone — a cry of pain, and then silence.

Newbury sighed. It was over.

Newbury turned back towards Purefoy and the metal stairwell. He’d have to recover Ashford’s body, first to verify his death, then to keep the matter out of the papers and the police reports. He kicked at the gravel, frustrated. He wanted to know why. What had driven this man — this former agent —to such murderous lengths? Had he real y believed the secrets of Khemosiri would have granted him a new life? Newbury doubted that very much. But desperate men are often driven to desperate measures. He hopped down from the lip at the corner of the factory roof. Then, to Newbury’s amazement, he heard the sounds of someone shifting around in the al eyway below.

There was a groan, fol owed by the ringing of tentative footsteps as Ashford, unseen due to the thick shroud of vapour, evidently climbed to his feet and continued on his way.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Newbury rushed along the edge of the building, looking for some means by which he could quickly descend to ground level and continue his pursuit. If he lost Ashford now, he knew he risked losing him forever.

Below, bolted to the side of the building, Newbury spotted the top of an iron ladder, similar to the one he had ascended a few minutes earlier, and smiled with grim satisfaction. Another stairwell.

The platform would be fixed to the wal , a storey below. He glanced behind him. Purefoy was watching him from across the rooftop, nursing his bloodied hands where they had been torn clinging to the iron railing. Newbury weighed up his options. Did he risk the jump? Or did he waste valuable time on the ladder? He knew, with steady resolve, that there was only one answer to that question.

He didn’t look back to see if Purefoy would fol ow. Hopping up onto the stone lip, Newbury casual y stepped off the side of the building, his body tautening as he prepared for the drop to the platform below.

This time, Newbury was ready for the impact and did not lose his footing, instead using his shoulder to take the brunt of his fall. It smarted painfully where it smashed against the hard railing, but he used the momentum to fling himself forward, tumbling down the first flight of stairs. He knew he would be black and blue with bruises by the morning, but he barely registered the knocks and scrapes as he dived headlong down flight after flight of metal steps towards the ground. His hands rasped on the worn metal as he slid from one storey to the other, his chest burning with the exertion.

All the while, the prickly need for opium was like a constant pull. He could feel his body craving the stuff. Once this was over, he promised himself, once he’d brought Ashford to justice; then he would attend to his own needs. For now, the needs of the Empire were far greater than his own.

In a matter of moments Newbury hit the ground, breaking into a roll to cushion his fall. Climbing to his feet, he glanced up at the side of the building to see if Purefoy had fol owed, but everything above was veiled in dense mist. Here, at ground level, it was beginning to pool, pulling a thick, yellow curtain across the city, but it was still wispy enough to allow Newbury to get his bearings. He took in his surroundings. The alleyway stank of raw sewage and rotting food. It was filthy, strewn with detritus, and outlet pipes gushed steam and dirty water onto the cobbles, drawn from the innards of the surrounding buildings. A feral cat was mewling loudly, somewhere out of sight. Newbury attempted to dust himself down, to little avail. His suit was covered in a layer of grime from the chase across the rooftops and his rol across the greasy cobbles. Mrs. Bradshaw would be delighted.

Newbury glanced from side to side, searching for signs of Ashford. The rogue agent had reached the other end of the al ey now, his back to Newbury. He was clearly in no hurry to get away.

Newbury grinned. Ashford hadn’t heard him on the stairwel , and had incorrectly assumed that Newbury would be unable to continue his pursuit, fol owing his leap from the top of the factory. It was an advantage that Newbury desperately needed. If the man could drop four storeys onto cobbles and survive to get up and walk away, then Newbury needed al the help he could get. In a fight, he didn’t fancy his chances against such a monster.

Newbury set off after the hulking form of the former agent, keeping pace. He needed to ensure that he didn’t inadvertently give Ashford a chance to lose himself in the warren of backstreets that criss-crossed this district of Regent’s Park. The light was almost gone now, and without his topcoat, Newbury could feel the damp air penetrating his clothes, filling his lungs like a cold compress.

Nevertheless, he crept along the al ey, clinging to the shadows, keeping Ashford locked in his sights.

They came to the mouth of the al eyway. Here, the street opened up in both directions, and directly ahead, across the main thoroughfare, the alley appeared to continue in a straight line for miles, disappearing into the dense fog. The street lamps had been diminished to nothing but diffuse, radial orbs that hung in the sky like a bizarre constellation, giving the air around them a tactile, almost physical quality. Newbury shivered. The cold air was damp and his face felt slick with moisture. The thoroughfare was busy; Newbury could hear the brisk chatter of people, the clatter of horses’ hooves, and the rude firing of numerous steam engines to his left. To his right, a street vendor was expounding the virtues of the latest edition of The Evening Standard.

Newbury lurked for a moment by the corner of a butcher’s shop, watching Ashford as he stumbled along in the darkness. Perhaps the fall had caused more damage to Ashford’s rebuilt frame than Newbury had at first imagined. If he could surprise the man from behind, he might have a chance of taking him down. He needed to act.

Newbury broke cover, dashing forward to make a leap for the other man. Too late, he realised there was a broken wooden pal et in the road, abandoned by a market trader and hidden by the low-lying vapour, and he lurched to one side to avoid colliding with it. His foot scuffed noisily on the paving slabs as he righted himself.

Ashford came to life. He spun round to catch sight of the Crown investigator charging him from the rear. Newbury could see no measure of emotion in Ashford’s cold, red eyes; indeed, he had yet to properly catch sight of the man’s face, concealed as it was beneath the dark cowl of his cloak. But he knew there was steel and darkness behind them. He considered the fact that he was potentially rushing headlong towards his own death.

He was surprised, therefore, when Ashford turned on his heel and fled, somehow managing to spring at least two foot into the air with each stride, his legs pumping furiously as he bounded along the thoroughfare at an incredible speed. He clearly wasn’t spoiling for a fight.

For the slightest of moments, Newbury stood, rooted to the spot, mouth agape in amazement.

Whatever Dr. Fabian had done to Ashford, he was clearly now more machine than man. No human being could ever propel themselves along at such a pace.

Newbury, realising that he’d soon lose Ashford in the fog if he failed to act, took after the man, careening along the street behind him, dodging out of the way of other, confused pedestrians as he ran. He left a young man sprawling in his wake, but had no time to stop to help him to his feet.

Newbury’s lungs burned, and his muscles ached. And, with mounting frustration, he watched as Ashford gained more and more distance with every stride.

Realistical y, Newbury knew that he could not keep up. He considered his options. If he continued to run, he would surely lose sight of Ashford. The man seemed tireless, and Newbury was already feeling the strain of the exertion. Ahead of him, a hansom cab clattered along the road, and for a moment Newbury almost decided to leap aboard. But he knew the horse and driver would still be no match for the reconstructed man. He glanced over his left shoulder.

There, by the side of the road, a young man was attending to one of the new steam-powered automobiles that had so taken London by storm during the prior months. It was a bizarre contraption. Balanced on three wheels, with a pear-shaped body and a fat rear end that housed a small furnace and water tank, the vehicle was in practice a miniaturised version of the steam-powered hansoms of which Newbury made frequent use. Inside the pear-shaped body was a deep pit, into which the driver would lower himself, and which also contained a series of panels and pul eys by which they would operate the steering mechanism. Early on, Newbury had considered obtaining one of the strange vehicles, but The Times had reported on a growing number of fatalities involving the contraptions, and over time, far from feeling a mounting temptation to adopt the new form of transportation, Newbury had grown to see them as a menace. Nevertheless, he needed a means by which to keep pace with Ashford, and as far as he could see, there were no better options available to him at that juncture.

The furnace of this particular vehicle was well stoked, for it was belching black smoke from its twin exhaust pipes. The man, who Newbury presumed to be the owner, was dressed in a smart black suit with matching leather gloves, and had a pair of flying goggles affixed to his brow, pushed up onto his forehead whilst he regarded his machine. Newbury skidded to a halt beside him. The man looked up, startled at the appearance of the detective.

“In the name of the Crown, hand over that vehicle!”

“What? I… er. .” The man looked flabbergasted. “Certainly not!” He looked Newbury up and down, unsure how to react to this dishevel ed man in front of him, who, thick with the detritus of his rooftop chase, was claiming to represent Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Newbury stepped forward and gently pushed the man to one side. He swung his legs up and over, into the control pit of the vehicle, and began fiddling with the controls, searching around for the lever that would propel it forward. He could see Ashford gaining ground in the distance, and he wasn’t about to let him get away. He was sweating profusely from his run. Wiping his brow on his sleeve, he fiddled with a pair of matching brass handles and felt the front wheel turning from side to side beneath him. The steering mechanism, then. Next, cranking a lever with a sharp jolt, he set the vehicle into motion. It lurched forward, nearly knocking its owner to the ground. The man was shaking his fist and bellowing for the police, but Newbury chose to ignore the outburst. He didn’t have time to engage in an argument with the man, nor to attempt to prove his credentials. The man would be suitably reimbursed for his trouble. Probably.

The engine roared and smoke bil owed like a black stain from its rear end. The vehicle stuttered forward again, and then hopped fifty yards along the road in short, jolting bursts. Frustrated, Newbury glared after Ashford. He knew that time was running out.

By this time the owner had gathered a fair crowd of onlookers, and a brief glance over his shoulder warned Newbury that a uniformed bobby had joined the fray. More distractions he could do without. He concentrated on deciphering the controls. Tentatively, Newbury eased back on the accelerator lever — which he assumed opened some sort of pressurised steam valve — and the vehicle kicked into a forward roll. The wheels clattered bumpily against the cobbled road, and he was jarred awkwardly as he continued to slowly adjust the lever to introduce more speed. At the last minute, he grasped for the brass steering knobs and swung the contraption out of the path of a middle-aged woman who was crossing the road before him, apparently oblivious to the rush of the oncoming vehicle. He slewed wildly to the right, and then, jamming the controls sharply to the left, he was able to bring the contraption back under some semblance of control. Other pedestrians dived out of his way as he cal ed out to them, hurtling headlong after the rogue agent.

It was difficult to see anything in the soupy fog, but, even with his remarkable mechanical enhancements, Ashford was no match for the speed of the steam-powered tricycle. He’d managed to gain considerable ground, but if he were intent on losing Newbury’s tail, he showed no signs of it.