The Osiris Ritual by George Mann Page B

mildew-stained doors that opened into dressing rooms along either side. The wooden floorboards creaked alarmingly as they walked.
    Newbury noticed that Veronica was lifting the hem of her yellow dress ever so slightly to avoid letting it trail on the dirty floor. Crossing to one of the open doorways, he peered into an empty dressing room with a grimace. The room had not seen use for some time, and had been al owed to become run-down and mouldy. The wal s were slick with damp, the floorboards peppered with rodent faeces and other, indescribable dirt, and the furniture had been piled up in one corner and was covered in a thick film of dust.
    “It astounds me that the theatre can function in such a decrepit state.” Veronica wrinkled her nose as she joined Newbury in the doorway of the abandoned room. Her eyes were shining in the low light. She seemed full of energy and life, excited at finding herself here, in the midst of another adventure. Newbury couldn’t help but smile; the thril of the chase was upon her.
    He nodded in agreement. “Quite. I fear the halcyon days of this particular establishment are long behind it.”
    There was a sound of coughing from one of the other rooms along the corridor. Veronica turned her head. Newbury looked over her shoulder. There was no one in the doorway, but it was clear which room the sound had come from; the door had been propped open and a light was spil ing out into the corridor, causing shadows to flicker ominously up and down the walls. They made their way towards the light. Newbury hesitated in the doorway and rapped loudly, three times. He couldn’t see the occupant from where he was standing by the doorjamb, but what he could see of the room suggested it saw more frequent use than the dressing room he had seen just a moment before. Bil s were pasted all over the walls, gaudy posters advertising events that had long since moved on to other, more salubrious venues: strong-man acts, dancing girls, magicians from the Far East. A dressing table was pushed up against one wall, a top hat resting before the discoloured mirror, a sepia photograph of two women tucked into one corner against the glass. A dove fluttered its wings in a domed cage hanging from the ceiling. It looked uncomfortable in the small cage.
    “What is it?” The man’s voice was gruff and unexpectedly English.

    Newbury stepped across the threshold and into the room. Veronica fol owed behind him. The man — whom Newbury immediately recognised as Alfonso — was lounging in a chair, dressed in his shirtsleeves and trousers and smoking a long cigarette, on which he puffed luxuriously. Smoke plumed from his nostrils. He looked up at Newbury, a dour expression on his face. “The show’s over.
    I think you must have taken a wrong turn.” He returned to studying his boots.
    Newbury smiled. Al sense of the man’s Italian accent had gone, replaced by a Home Counties drawl. “On the contrary. I sought you out in order to offer my compliments, Mr. Alfonso. My name is Sir Maurice Newbury, and this is my associate, Miss Veronica Hobbes.”
    At this mention of Newbury’s honorific, the magician seemed to snap to attention. He glanced at Veronica, seeing her properly for the first time. “Sir Maurice. Please forgive me. I’m sure you will understand that a venue such as this does not frequently attract clientele of the genteel variety.” His face cracked into a wide grin. He shifted his feet from where they were perched on a stool and stood, offering Newbury his hand. Newbury took it and shook it firmly. “So, what on earth attracted you to the Archibald this evening?”
    “You, Mr. Alfonso. I hear your show has been causing quite a stir in the Home Counties and wanted to see it for myself.”
    “Really? Well, thank you for taking an interest. And how did you find it? I hope it wasn’t a disappointment?”
    “No. Not at all. It was most impressive. I was particularly taken with the card tricks. I’ve been