Read The Osiris Ritual for Free Online
Authors: George Mann
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Historical, Fantasy, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery Fiction, Occult fiction, Women Private Investigators, Steampunk, Serial Murderers, London (England), Government investigators, Steampunk Fiction, spy stories, Immortalism, London (England) - History - 19th Century, Private Investigators - England, Egyptologists - England, Egyptologists, Serial Murderers - England, Women Private Investigators - England, Government Investigators - England
seeking clarity on what his next move should be, if any. And then, he promised himself, he would finally make time for breakfast.
Chapter Three
“Morning, Watkins.”
“Good morning, sir.”
Newbury, stil damp from being caught in the shower outside Waterloo Station, nodded politely to the doorman as he made his way up the steps at the front of the British Museum.
The building was a magnificent edifice of grey stone, redolent of a classical Greek structure, with towering Corinthian columns and bizarre effigies carved in relief along the roofline in long, decorative friezes. The dreary morning didn’t show the wonderful architecture off to its best, Newbury thought, as he looked up to note with dismay that the sky was almost as grey as the building itself. It was going to rain again shortly.
Watkins held the door open for him, and Newbury smiled as he slipped inside.
It was still too early for the public to be milling around the exhibits, and the place felt deserted as he crossed the lobby, his shoes clicking loudly on the polished marble floor. He’d abandoned his copy of The Times in the back of the cab, but his fingers were stil stained with streaks of dark ink that had run when he’d used the newspaper as a shield against the rain. He’d have to wash and dry off before he prepared his note for the Queen. He coughed, stil hacking on the grotesque smell that seemed to have lodged in his nostrils and throat following his bizarre experience on the train. He hoped a pot of Earl Grey would help to clear the disgusting scent.
Newbury made his way to the private staircase that led down towards the bowels of the enormous building, where his office was located, hidden amongst the dusty stacks of the archives and the administration offices of the museum managers.
A few minutes later, having passed along a network of winding corridors, he came to the door to his office. He straightened the front of his jacket and pushed on the handle. The door swung open to reveal a small room, lit by a series of hissing gas lamps. He stepped inside, clicked the door shut behind him and began shrugging off his damp jacket to hang on the coat stand in the corner.
“Ah, Sir Maurice. I trust you had a pleasant evening?”
Newbury turned to see his secretary, Miss Coulthard, emerging from the adjoining room, where he and his assistant Miss Veronica Hobbes kept their desks. Miss Coulthard was a diminutive woman in her early thirties, with dark, brown hair tied up in a tight bun. She was dressed in a long grey dress and matching wool en cardigan. She was not conventional y pretty, but she was one of the most reliable people that Newbury knew, and he admired her for her dedication and resolve.
“Pleasant enough, thank you, Miss Coulthard. An interesting diversion.” He draped his jacket on the coat stand and rol ed his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, leaving dirty smears of ink on his white shirt. “I fear this morning has been entirely less successful, however.” He raised an eyebrow with a sigh.
Miss Coulthard gave him an appraising look. “Tea?”
Newbury laughed. “It’s almost as if you can read my mind, Miss Coulthard. Thank you. Tea would be delightful.” He turned as if to head into the other room, and then stopped by the edge of Miss Coulthard’s desk. “May I enquire as to the health of your brother, Miss Coulthard? Is he making a smooth recovery?”
Miss Coulthard nodded. “As expected, Sir Maurice. The doctor says he’l need a few more weeks to get his strength back, but his memory is returning, slowly but surely.”
Newbury smiled. “Delighted to hear it.” He regarded his hands. “Ah, excuse me for a moment.”
He crossed to the sink in the corner of the room and, taking up a cake of soap, began at scrubbing away the newsprint stains. Then, grabbing a towel from the rack beside the sink, he made his way to the adjoining room, leaving Miss Coulthard to set to work with the kettle.
Newbury hovered on the
Chapter Three
“Morning, Watkins.”
“Good morning, sir.”
Newbury, stil damp from being caught in the shower outside Waterloo Station, nodded politely to the doorman as he made his way up the steps at the front of the British Museum.
The building was a magnificent edifice of grey stone, redolent of a classical Greek structure, with towering Corinthian columns and bizarre effigies carved in relief along the roofline in long, decorative friezes. The dreary morning didn’t show the wonderful architecture off to its best, Newbury thought, as he looked up to note with dismay that the sky was almost as grey as the building itself. It was going to rain again shortly.
Watkins held the door open for him, and Newbury smiled as he slipped inside.
It was still too early for the public to be milling around the exhibits, and the place felt deserted as he crossed the lobby, his shoes clicking loudly on the polished marble floor. He’d abandoned his copy of The Times in the back of the cab, but his fingers were stil stained with streaks of dark ink that had run when he’d used the newspaper as a shield against the rain. He’d have to wash and dry off before he prepared his note for the Queen. He coughed, stil hacking on the grotesque smell that seemed to have lodged in his nostrils and throat following his bizarre experience on the train. He hoped a pot of Earl Grey would help to clear the disgusting scent.
Newbury made his way to the private staircase that led down towards the bowels of the enormous building, where his office was located, hidden amongst the dusty stacks of the archives and the administration offices of the museum managers.
A few minutes later, having passed along a network of winding corridors, he came to the door to his office. He straightened the front of his jacket and pushed on the handle. The door swung open to reveal a small room, lit by a series of hissing gas lamps. He stepped inside, clicked the door shut behind him and began shrugging off his damp jacket to hang on the coat stand in the corner.
“Ah, Sir Maurice. I trust you had a pleasant evening?”
Newbury turned to see his secretary, Miss Coulthard, emerging from the adjoining room, where he and his assistant Miss Veronica Hobbes kept their desks. Miss Coulthard was a diminutive woman in her early thirties, with dark, brown hair tied up in a tight bun. She was dressed in a long grey dress and matching wool en cardigan. She was not conventional y pretty, but she was one of the most reliable people that Newbury knew, and he admired her for her dedication and resolve.
“Pleasant enough, thank you, Miss Coulthard. An interesting diversion.” He draped his jacket on the coat stand and rol ed his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, leaving dirty smears of ink on his white shirt. “I fear this morning has been entirely less successful, however.” He raised an eyebrow with a sigh.
Miss Coulthard gave him an appraising look. “Tea?”
Newbury laughed. “It’s almost as if you can read my mind, Miss Coulthard. Thank you. Tea would be delightful.” He turned as if to head into the other room, and then stopped by the edge of Miss Coulthard’s desk. “May I enquire as to the health of your brother, Miss Coulthard? Is he making a smooth recovery?”
Miss Coulthard nodded. “As expected, Sir Maurice. The doctor says he’l need a few more weeks to get his strength back, but his memory is returning, slowly but surely.”
Newbury smiled. “Delighted to hear it.” He regarded his hands. “Ah, excuse me for a moment.”
He crossed to the sink in the corner of the room and, taking up a cake of soap, began at scrubbing away the newsprint stains. Then, grabbing a towel from the rack beside the sink, he made his way to the adjoining room, leaving Miss Coulthard to set to work with the kettle.
Newbury hovered on the
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