The Osiris Ritual

George Mann
Chapter One

London, February 1902

George Purefoy was running late.

The young reporter hurtled down the street, his notebook clutched tightly in his hand, dodging out of the way of the other pedestrians, who eyed him warily as he raced by like some crazed animal, pursued by an invisible pack of hounds. His sand-coloured hair stung his eyes where it whipped across his face in the driving wind. His dinner suit was crumpled and now, to top things off, it had started to rain. The biggest assignment of his career to date, and things had already started to go terribly wrong.

Purefoy skipped around a red post box, narrowly missed colliding with an elderly gentleman in a top hat, and finally flung himself – at speed – around a bend in the road. There, in the distance, was Albion House, the home of Lord Henry Winthrop. The street outside the house was bathed in bright yellow light from the glare in the windows, and even from here, a good hundred feet away, the noise of the party spil ed out to form a cacophony of chatter in the otherwise quiet London evening.

Purefoy, catching his breath, slowed his pace to a steady walk. He attempted to regain his composure, smoothing his jacket and straightening his tie. Rain pattered lightly on his face. Other guests were still arriving at the big house, and whilst he was most definitely late, it didn't look to Purefoy like he had missed the main event. At least he hoped not: his career as a reporter depended on it.

Purefoy had made his way here, across town from the office, for the society event of the year, to cover the return of the explorer and philanthropist Lord Henry Winthrop from his expedition to Egypt, and more, to attend the grand unveiling of his greatest find: the mummified remains of an ancient Theban king. There had been a great deal of fanfare about the success of the expedition over the last few weeks, accompanied by wild claims from Winthrop that the mummy was a unique specimen; found still, wrapped in its finery, it was said to bear strange markings that were unfamiliar to any of the experts he had consulted at the British Museum. It was the talk of London, and tonight, Winthrop planned to unwrap the bindings of the long-dead king before a select audience of guests.

Much to the chagrin of his fellow reporters, Purefoy had been offered the assignment to cover the event for The Times, fol owing the success of his recent piece about the revenant plague and the government conspiracy to hide the fact that it was stil spreading unchecked through the London slums. He'd set off in plenty of time, of course, first picking out his best suit and selecting a brand new notebook from his pile. But then the ground train he was on had shuddered to a halt a few streets away, and word had spread throughout the carriages that a spooked horse had caused a cart to overturn, spilling its cargo of rags and bones across the tracks up ahead. Knowing that he didn't have much further to go, and sure that waiting for the engineers to clear the tracks would cause him to miss the party, he had taken matters into his own hands and instead set out on foot. Now, uncomfortable, damp and late, he was starting to wonder whether the assignment itself was actually more of a curse than the blessing it had at first appeared to be.

Purefoy quickened his step and made his way along the street towards the party. Grand houses loomed over him from both sides of the wide street. This was a London as unfamiliar to him as the slums he usual y found himself writing about. The people who lived in these enormous mansions moved in circles entirely outside of his experience, and he found himself feeling not a little nervous at the prospect of having to hold his own with a crowd of such gentlemen, lords and ladies.

Nevertheless, he was certainly anxious to see what Lord Winthrop had brought back with him from the Middle East, and more specifically to bear witness to the unrolling of the Pharaoh himself.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps to let a lady in a billowing, cream-coloured dress – who had just stepped out of a private carriage – enter the party before him. She offered him a gracious smile as he stepped to one side to al ow her to pass. He eyed the butler by the front door as the man checked the lady's invitation and showed her inside. Judging by the standard of the servants, Purefoy was starting to feel a little underdressed. He checked his suit again, conscious that he was more than a little crumpled and damp. Sighing, he patted his pockets and located the invitation card.

Then, warily, he mounted the steps and presented the card to the older, balding man, who looked Purefoy up and down and raised an eyebrow before examining the card he'd been handed. There was a brief pause.

"Ah, yes sir. With the Times. Won't you come this way?" It was as if the man's entire demeanour had changed upon seeing the invitation. Purefoy gave him a quizzical look. He couldn't tell whether the butler had altered his previously haughty attitude because of his respect for the newspaper, or because, upon realising that Purefoy was a reporter, he had somehow lowered his expectations. Either way, he supposed it didn't matter al that much. He fol owed the butler in through the grand porch, which was impressively decorated with a series of stained-glass panels and Minton tiles, and stepped through the inner door that the butler held open for him on the other side. A moment later he was standing in the grand hallway, where the party was already in full swing.

Purefoy gazed on in amazement. It was like nothing he'd seen before, in all of his life. An enormous staircase dominated the space, its sweeping banisters curving up to form a large gallery that looked down upon the bustling hall. Glass cabinets had been erected at regular intervals all around the tiled floor, filled with the most wondrous gilded treasures from the tomb of the mummified king. People milled around these cabinets, cooing appreciatively, drinks in hand, courting one another with sidelong glances and averted gazes. Purefoy almost laughed out loud. It was like every cliche he could have imagined, and more sumptuous and extravagant than even those. The women floated around in the most magnificent dresses of coloured silk, brandishing their drinks like weapons. The men looked austere in their formal attire, and clustered together in little groups, talking in hushed tones. This, Purefoy thought to himself, is all of London society, here together in one room. He didn't know whether to be giddy or appal ed at the thought.

Feeling a little lost, Purefoy cast around for anyone he recognised. There were faces he'd seen in portraits and photographs, but no one it would be proper for him to approach at a party, at least without a formal introduction. Up on the gal ery, he noted Lord Winthrop himself was resting against the balustrade, surveying the scene below. He was sporting a wide grin. When he spotted Purefoy looking, he offered the reporter a little wave, and then pushed himself away from his perch and began making his way along the landing towards the stairs.

Purefoy had met Lord Winthrop only once before, the prior week, when the lord had visited the offices of The Times to discuss an exclusive on the story with the editor. He seemed like a gregarious sort of chap, with a welcoming manner, but Purefoy was not so naive as to miss the fact that the only reason Winthrop was making a beeline towards him through the party was because his inflated ego compelled him to entertain the reporter who would be providing a write-up of his event for the morning edition. He smiled and held out his hand as the lord approached him, the other guests turning to see who their host had decided to grace with his presence.

"Mr. Purefoy! A pleasure. Are you enjoying the party?" Lord Winthrop was a tall, stocky man with broad shoulders, a long, greying beard and a receding hairline. He carried his weight around his jowls and his waist, and his voice was friendly but with an overbearing boom.

Purefoy smiled. "Alas, I've only this moment arrived. An accident in the road meant I had to finish my journey on foot. I trust I haven't missed the main event?"

Winthrop patted Purefoy easily on the shoulder. "Not at all, my good man. Not at all. It's been four thousand years since the Theban was confined to his bandages. I'd say there is no imperative to rush, wouldn't you? Now, let's get you a drink.." Chuckling, Winthrop gestured towards the row of statues situated along the back wal, to either side of the huge staircase. Purefoy watched, fascinated, as one of the statues stepped down from its perch, collected a tray of drinks from a nearby table, and made its way jerkily towards them. Purefoy had assumed the statues were part of the display, items brought back from the expedition by Winthrop and his team. The one coming towards them looked every bit the part: a flawless, life-size replica of an Ancient Egyptian statue, replete with carved headdress and blank, staring eyes.

Winthrop laughed when he saw the young reporter's expression. "Dear boy, haven't you seen one of these new Ottoman automaton devices?"

Purefoy shook his head.

"Why, they're al the rage. Much better than those terrible British things we had last year. No, these truly are wondrous machines. Look here." He waved at the device as it came closer, and Purefoy stood agape as Winthrop took a flute of champagne from the proffered tray. "Brass framework of unsightly cogs and things underneath, but a porcelain veneer over the top, designed to order. I had these ones made up in the style of the twelfth dynasty. Remarkable, aren't they? Just like living statues."

Purefoy accepted the glass of champagne from Winthrop and took a long sip. "Indeed they are.

Very impressive." He watched as the bizarre creation made its way back through the crowd, returned the tray to its place on the table and climbed back on to its pedestal beside its fel ows. He studied it for a moment, unnerved by the manner in which it had so easily blended once again into the background, becoming nothing but another immobile exhibit. He repressed a shudder. Purefoy turned to Winthrop, who he realised had been talking at him for some time.

".. and there is Lord and Lady Buchanan, talking to Sir David and his wife. Oh yes, and there's Sir Maurice Newbury, examining some of the ushabti idols in that glass cabinet over there. Yes, perfect, I should say. You should meet Sir Maurice right away. Come on. I'm sure he'd be delighted to meet a man from The Times."

Winthrop led him through the crowds towards a man who was standing alone beside one of the glass cases, examining the items on display inside. The man was wearing a thoughtful expression and the glass of champagne he was clutching in his left hand appeared to be untouched. He looked up, distractedly, as Winthrop and Purefoy approached, and smiled when he recognised his host. He came out from behind the cabinet, giving Purefoy the opportunity to see him properly. He was dressed in a fitted black suit with white shirt and bow tie. His hair was jet black and swept back from his forehead, and his emerald eyes glittered above a hawkish nose. Purefoy guessed he was in his mid-thirties, but could have been older. He extended his hand and Winthrop took it firmly.

"Lord Winthrop. A pleasure to see you again. I trust you are well, following your return from the Middle East?"

Winthrop nodded vigorously. "Wel enough, Sir Maurice, wel enough. I see you've been admiring my little collection."

"Indeed. Quite a find you had out there in the desert, Henry. I'm particularly intrigued by the markings on this series of four ushabti figures. They seem very unusual -" He stopped, suddenly, looking up to see Purefoy standing off to one side, sipping at his champagne. "Oh. How terribly impolite of me." He stepped over towards Purefoy and extended his hand. "Please, forgive me..?"

"Purefoy. George Purefoy."

"Please forgive me, Mr. Purefoy. It's just I get a little carried away when I find myself surrounded by such exquisite objects as these."

Purefoy laughed at the man's obvious embarrassment. In truth, it was Lord Winthrop's faux pas for not introducing them, but Purefoy took it as a measure of the man that he accepted the error on himself. "Not at all, Sir Maurice. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Winthrop clapped his hands together with a hearty laugh. "Capital! Maurice – Purefoy here is a reporter with The Times. He's going to be writing a piece about tonight's little soiree for the morning edition."

Newbury offered Purefoy a sly, knowing grin. "Indeed? And have you decided yet how you intend to approach your piece?"

Purefoy glanced awkwardly at Winthrop, who smiled at him expectantly. He cocked his head to one side in thought. "I don't believe I have, as yet. I think it rather hinges on the centrepiece." He paused, glancing around at the gathered crowd. "I'm sure it will be a spectacular revelation for us all."

Winthrop stepped forward and clapped him – a little over-zealously – on the back. "Don't doubt it, dear boy! Don't doubt it for a minute. Now, I real y must attend to Lady Worthington over there. She looks a little lost amongst the canopic jars. I'll leave you in the capable hands of Sir Maurice, here." He trailed off, his attention already across the other side of the room. Purefoy stepped aside to let him pass, and smiled as Winthrop's exasperated voice boomed loudly behind him. "Lady Worthington.. Over here, my dear."

Newbury leaned in towards Purefoy. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Lovely old chap, but quite lost in his own magnificence, if you know what I mean."

Purefoy chuckled. "Precisely."

"Of course," Newbury looked momentarily troubled, "you won't print that, wil you?"

Purefoy shook his head. "Indeed not, Sir Maurice. Your commentary is safe in my hands."

Newbury laughed. "Excel ent to hear it!" He sipped at his champagne. "Now, have they given you any notion about what's really going on in this room?"

Purefoy frowned. "I'm not sure that I quite understand."

Newbury grinned. "I'll take that as a no." He beckoned Purefoy forward. "Stand here for a minute. Tell me what you see."

Perplexed, Purefoy edged forward until he was standing beside the glass cabinet that Newbury had been studying a few moments earlier. Newbury gestured to the crush of people. "Out there.

What do you see?"

"I see a crowd of people, all dressed in their finery, here to see the unrolling of a four-thousand-year-old mummy from Thebes."

Newbury laughed again. "I thought that's what you'd say." "Why, what do you see?"

"I see a crowd of people desperate to be seen, al dressed up for an ancient dead man. I see no one who is truly interested in whatever it is they'l find under those ancient bandages, or the items on display in the cases in this hallway. No one here gives a damn about Egypt or Winthrop's expedition. London society is nothing but a game, Mr. Purefoy, and a dismal one at that. It's about being seen, about showing one's face at the appropriate functions. That's why all of these people are here tonight, and that's precisely why Winthrop invited them. He likes the pomp."

"Then why are you here, Sir Maurice, if you find it all so tiresome?"

Newbury smiled. "Ah, now that's a question. I could tel you that I'm here because I have an academic interest in the subject. Or that I'm very much intrigued by the reports I've seen filed at the British Museum about the expedition and exactly what it is they found out there in the hot sands. Or even that I enjoy the thril of seeing ancient artefacts uncovered for the first time in millennia. But in truth I'm sure I'm just as bad as the rest of them, here to drink my complimentary champagne and strut around before the gathered society commentators like a peacock."

Purefoy chuckled. "Now I know you're tel ing the truth." Laughing, they both took another sip of their champagne. "Now, see those three chaps over there, standing together in a huddle?"

Purefoy strained to see over Newbury's shoulder. "Ah, yes. I see." Three middle-aged men in top hats and black coats were standing by the doorway into the drawing room, gesticulating passionately, deep in the middle of what looked like a heated debate.

"Well, their story is something entirely different. Those are the other members of Winthrop's expedition. They were the men who helped him pul al of these wonderful things out of the ground, and I'll wager they're about to help him unwrap the old priest, too."

"Priest? I thought it was a Pharaoh?"

"Hmmm. Well I suppose that makes it a little more sensational, doesn't it?" Newbury raised an eyebrow. "It's clear from looking at a handful of the items on display here that the character beneath those wrappings was never a king. And what is more, I'm inclined to believe that there is a very good reason why the tomb had lain undisturbed by grave robbers for so long. I'm sure there must be something about the nature of the burial that Winthrop is not tel ing us. Anyway, we're about to find out. Here's our host now.."

Purefoy turned to see Winthrop taking up a position at the foot of the grand staircase. The man clapped his hands together loudly, three times, and a hush fel over the assembled crowd.

"Lords, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome. I hope your glasses are all suitably charged. We are about to begin the process of unrol ing the mummified remains of our Theban king. If you would care to take up a position in the drawing room, my associate Mr. Wilfred Blake," at this, Winthrop gestured towards the group of three men that Newbury had pointed out earlier, "will be delighted to explain the process to you as we perform the task. We begin momentarily. Thank you."

There was a brief smattering of applause, and then the room started to bustle once again as people began making their way towards the large, white double doors that led into the drawing room. Purefoy turned to Newbury, who swiftly downed the last vestiges of his champagne and beckoned the reporter towards the door. "Come on. Let's make sure we get a good spot."

Tucking his notebook into his jacket pocket, Purefoy found a smal side table to abandon his unfinished drink and fol owed Newbury around the rows of glass cabinets and on towards the drawing room. All the while, society veterans bearing dispassionate expressions milled around him, as though this next stage of the evening was something that they had to bear, like a burden, in order to carry on with their socialising and drinking. Newbury, on the other hand, seemed keen to get both himself and Purefoy to the forefront of things, and when they finally crossed the threshold into the large drawing room, it was little effort for them to establish a position near the head of the table.

Purefoy took a moment to examine his surroundings. The curtains had been pul ed shut against the twilight, and the room was dimly lit by an array of flickering gas lamps, casting everything in a warm, yellow glow. Dark wooden bookshelves lined the far wall, filled with musty old tomes that Purefoy couldn't distinguish from one another in the half-light. People were forming a wide circle around a long, central table, whispering to each other in subdued voices. Purefoy savoured the moment as he took his place beside Newbury.

The item that dominated the room, of course, was the funeral casket of the Ancient Egyptian; laid out on the table, the large wooden coffin was shaped in the rough form of its occupant and was a truly wonderful sight to behold. Every inch of it was covered in the most intricate patterns and designs, and it was clear to Purefoy that the craftsmen who had tooled the object had been masters of their art, all the more impressive for the fact they had lived around four thousand years in the past. Gold leaf shimmered in the warm light of the gas lamps, whilst blue ink and inlaid precious stones finished the effect. Hieroglyphs were etched in long black columns over the torso and legs of the casket, and on top of these, other, more unusual symbols had been painted in splashes of red, obliterating much of the original script. The red ink had faded somewhat, however, so it was clear the markings were historical and had not been affected by Winthrop and his men during the course of the expedition.

Purefoy leaned in to examine the face that had been carved into the wooden lid. The eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, giving away nothing about the casket's occupant. It was so heavily stylised that he was unable to get any real impression of what the person had truly looked like in life.

Newbury leaned over to whisper in his ear. "Have you ever been to one of these things before?"

Purefoy shook his head.

"Well I hope you're not squeamish. Fascinating stuff, though. Truly fascinating. I think we're in for a surprise." He raised his eyebrow once again and offered Purefoy a confident smile.

Purefoy glanced around. The other guests were huddling in behind them now, clutching drinks, their faces gleaming in the wan light. Purefoy folded his arms behind his back, and waited.

A moment later a hush rippled through the gathered throng of people as the four members of the expedition filed into the room. They had each shed their suit jackets and hats, rolled up their shirtsleeves and donned leather gloves and smocks. Winthrop and Blake were first to step up to the table, whilst the other two men cleared a space for them, asking the audience to stand back to make room. Winthrop was carrying some sort of bizarre contraption, which a moment later was proven to be a mechanical visual aid, like a pair of spectacles attached to a wire framework that fitted neatly over his head. Lenses clicked down before his eyes, and he fiddled with a tool on either side of the device to adjust their focus. Thus prepared, Winthrop approached the casket, whilst Blake skirted around to the head of the table, readying himself to address the audience. He cleared his throat, and the susurrating voices of the crowd gave way to silence.

"I advise those of you with weak hearts or fragile constitutions to momentarily avert your eyes.

Our first task will be to free the lid from the casket, and whilst we expect to find only another, smaller casket inside, we have no way of knowing how accurate our assumptions may be." His voice was thin and nasal, and he delivered his speech with an impeccable precision. Purefoy looked him up and down. The man was slim, drawn and clean-shaven, quite the opposite of the burly Winthrop. His blond hair was brushed back from his forehead in a neat side parting and his eyes were a piercing blue. "There are many things about the burial of this ancient king that are inconsistent with other contemporary burials in the same region." Blake stepped nearer to the casket and waved his hand to indicate the splashes of red paint that had been hastily daubed across the engraved hieroglyphs.

"For example, we have no understanding of the nature of these red markings, but suspect them to be a magic ward of some type, a warning to anyone in the afterlife who may happen upon the spirit of the person contained within the casket. Of course, any such concerns are moot – nothing but superstitious nonsense – but it nevertheless serves to suggest that there may be more irregularities contained within the casket." He gave a dramatic pause. "None of our assumptions can be trusted.

We hope to discover more as we proceed."

Newbury glanced over his shoulder at Purefoy with an unreadable look on his face.

Blake approached the casket, taking his place opposite Winthrop, who had moved around to the other side of the table. They both placed their hands on the lid of the casket, and together they proceeded to test the seal.

The two men worked the lid back and forth, but after a couple of minutes it became clear that it was stuck fast, warped with age, grime and decay. Unperturbed, Winthrop took a three-inch blade from the pouch in the front of his smock and set about running the knife along the join, hacking away at the seal in an effort to work the lid free. Purefoy noticed Newbury wincing as flakes of gold leaf and four-thousand-year-old hieroglyphs fell to the polished floor by their feet.

It didn't take Winthrop long to complete his rather brutal assault on the seal, and a minute or two later he had resumed his position opposite Blake as they prepared to lift the lid. Purefoy edged closer, anxious to get a good view of whatever they would find inside.

Winthrop grunted as he wedged his fingers underneath the rim of the seal. There was a splintering crack, fol owed by a loud sigh, as the two men heaved the lid free of the base. They placed it hastily on the table. Dust plumed into the air from within the shell of the casket, undisturbed for mil ennia. Purefoy wrinkled his nose. There was a dry odour from within the wooden coffin: the scent of ancient, foetid decay.

The four men from the expedition hurried forward to crowd around the casket, and Purefoy found it hard to see what was going on as they gestured to one another excitedly, clearly animated by their find. He edged around the table, feeling uncomfortable as the press of people behind him became more pronounced, each of the guests straining to see over the others. When he did finally manage to get a good look, he nearly gasped aloud with surprise. The contents of the casket were magnificent. Another coffin, decorated in shimmering black and gold, lay inside the outer shell like a Russian doll, perfectly designed to fit within the larger casing. The decoration was impeccable: beneath the thin layer of dust it was so bright and glassy it could almost have been new. The inner coffin itself had been carved out of a dark hardwood and inlaid with generous bands of bright, yellow gold. The face seemed slimmer and more feminine than the visage on the outer casket, and its eyes had been set with deep red gemstones that reflected the warm glow of the gas lamps. Once again, the torso was covered in a spidery pattern of white hieroglyphs and symbols that, to Purefoy, seemed as exotic as the entire experience of being there, in the drawing room of the grand house, watching the scene unfold before his eyes. He was more than a little awed by the experience.

He glanced at Newbury, who was leaning over the casket studying the ancient markings. He looked thoughtful. Purefoy was just about to ask him what had caught his attention when Winthrop stepped back from the table and clapped his hands together to garner attention. "Lords, ladies and gentlemen! You are in the presence of a truly magnificent find!" Winthrop's excitement was clearly genuine. "The inner casket is like nothing we could have expected. The black and gold decoration is highly irregular. Please, take a moment to enjoy the sight before we continue with our unrol ing." He urged the others back from the edge of the table and waved a handful of people forward to take a look. Blake and the other two members of the expedition – Purefoy considered he would have to elicit their names by the end of the evening for his article – moved away reluctantly and stood off to one side, whispering to one another with some urgency, as many of the guests came forward to peer into the open casket of the dead man.

Purefoy caught Newbury's attention, keeping his voice low. "So, tell me, Sir Maurice, do you know if this is quite as irregular as Lord Winthrop has cause to make us believe?"

Newbury furrowed his brow. "Indeed so. It's quite the most singular casket I've ever seen. The black and gold decoration is most unusual. And the fact that the occupant has been rendered anonymous, by virtue of the complete absence of any cartouches bearing his name on the inner or outer caskets, is particularly strange. There's certainly nothing like it in the annals of the British Museum." He smiled. "Didn't I tell you we were in for a surprise?"

Purefoy nodded. "I can't deny it." He looked around. People were beginning to mil around amongst themselves once again, and the hubbub of chatter had noticeably increased. Newbury had been right; most of the people in the room had feigned a minimal amount of interest in the contents of the casket, but left to their own devices had reverted to conversing with their neighbours. He searched for Winthrop, and eventual y spotted the lord by the fireplace, deep in the middle of a heated discussion with Blake.

Newbury leaned closer, smoothing the front of his jacket distractedly. "I suspect this has thrown them into something of a quandary." He nodded in the direction of the bickering men, who were still dressed in their leather smocks and bizarre headgear. "I'd wager that Blake wants to halt proceedings so that they may spend a little more time making a study of the inner casket, whilst Winthrop is anxious to give his guests a good show. If I know anything at all about the man, he'll make a point of continuing with the performance."

"Yes, I rather think he'd prefer to destroy the thing than al ow his guests to leave unsatisfied."

"Well, Mr. Purefoy. I do believe you have the measure of the situation. I wonder. Do you -"

"Well, really, Winthrop! This is unbearable. I shall have no further part in it!" Newbury was cut off abruptly when Wilfred Blake, raising his voice above the din, exploded at Winthrop, who was now leaning against the fireplace, his face unreadable behind the mechanical spectacles which he

'still wore over his eyes. The room was silent as Blake, his shoes clicking loudly on the tiled floor, turned about and made a hasty exit from the drawing room, his disagreement with Winthrop apparent to everyone in the room.

Winthrop stepped forward, his hands wide apart in a placating gesture. "Let us continue with the task in hand. Arthur?" He beckoned to one of the other men, who readily stepped forward to adopt Blake's place. Winthrop turned to the sea of faces. "We shal now extract the inner casket from the outer shell, before exposing the mummified remains of the king inside."

The two men closed on the casket base and, reaching inside, fumbled around until they had a grip on the snugly fit inner coffin. Their eyes met, and Winthrop counted to three before wheezing with the strain as they lifted the weighty coffin out of its former resting place. There was a collective gasp from the audience as the true magnitude of the casket's beauty became evident. The two men careful y laid the object on the table beside the base, and then set about making themselves some more room to work by replacing the outer lid on the base and moving the larger casket to a spot on the floor behind them.

Winthrop ran his hands gently over the top of the coffin. There was no denying how impressive it was. The thing seemed to radiate an aura all of its own, capturing the attention – and the imagination, Purefoy assumed – of the assembled guests, many of whom had forgotten their idle conversations and were now watching with apparent interest.

Winthrop looked up at Arthur. "Are you ready?"

Arthur nodded.

They both ran their fingers along the seal between the coffin lid and base. Then, with a brief glance at the gathered crowd, Winthrop slid his fingers into the gap and together the two men lifted the lid. This time it came away easily, and Purefoy found he was holding his breath, transfixed.

In truth it came as something of an anti-climax after the grandeur of their earlier find. As Winthrop and his man laid the casket lid carefully to one side, Purefoy was able to see into the coffin. There, amongst a bed of decayed reeds, was a human figure, bound in yel owing linen bandages, only the very tips of its claw-like fingers exposed for the world to see. The bandages were covered in an archaic scrawl that Purefoy did not recognise, black, faded runes that appeared to have been inked onto the linen before the body was wrapped.

Winthrop took no time to ponder his next move, or to concern himself with any sense of decorum that Purefoy felt may have been appropriate in the handling of the dead. He reached directly into the coffin and scooped out the withered body, fetching it up into his arms and then, as Arthur moved the coffin shel out of the way, placing it down upon the tabletop. He turned to Purefoy, smiling. "Now, let us see how our ancient king exited this world."

Taking up the same blade he had used earlier to break his way into the outer casket, Winthrop made a slit into the wrappings along the right side of the mummy. Then, taking up a fistful of bandages, he began to peel away the layers, discarding the wrapping casually to the floor. Purefoy was appalled, and almost started forward to challenge the lord in his mistreatment of the ancient artefact, but remembered himself at the last moment and was able to bite his tongue. Layers of crumbling linen fell away.

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.