Read Crocodile on the Sandbank Online
Authors: Elizabeth Peters
Tags: #Historical fiction, #Detective and mystery stories, #Mystery fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Historical, #Suspense, #Crime & mystery, #Political, #Women detectives - Egypt, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictious character), #Crime & Thriller, #Mummies, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictitious character), #Egyptology, #Cairo (Egypt), #Mystery, #Detective, #Women detectives, #Emerson, #Radcliffe (Fictitious character), #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Archaeologists' spouses, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Egypt, #Fiction - Mystery
Crocodile on the Sandbank (18 page)
with a pistol, to even the odds."
So saying, he stalked away. He was followed by Walter. Lucas chuckled
and rubbed his hands together.
"What an adventure! I can hardly wait!"
"Nor I," said Evelyn. "Amelia, will you not reconsider?"
"Certainly not," I said in a loud voice, and walked off with my head
held stiffly. I did not like leaving them alone together, but I felt it
wise to add to the impression of ill will. It would be helpful later,
when Evelyn and I staged our quarrel.
It was a one-sided argument, for Evelyn could not even pretend to shout
at me. I made up the deficiency, and ended the argument by storming out
of our tomb with my pillow and counterpane under my arm. I carried them
down the ledge and into the little tent Michael had been occupying. Any
watcher might readily assume that Evelyn and I had had a falling out,
and that I had refused to share our sleeping quarters.
I could not strike a light, since it would have been visible through
the canvas walls of the tent. It was not an honest English tent, only a
low shelter of canvas; I could not stand erect in it. Squatting on the
sand which was the floor of the shelter, I thought seriously of the man
who had been its occupant. I was not at all convinced that Michael had
left of his own free will. Men are frail creatures, of course; one does
not expect them to exhibit the steadfastness of women. All the same, I
did not like having my judgment of Michael disproved, and I determined
to search the tent in the hope of finding some clue. There was just
enough light from without to show me that Michael's scanty possessions
had been removed; but as I wriggled
around, my fingers touched an object buried in the sand. I dug it out.
I did not need to see the moonlight sparkling off its metallic surface
to comprehend what it was. A crucifix. Part of the chain was still
there, but only part. It had been snapped, not unfastened in the usual
way.
My fingers closed tightly over the small object. Michael would never
have left it; it was the only thing of value he owned, as well as an
amulet against evil. The breaking of the chain confirmed my dread. It
must have been snapped during a struggle.
Heedless of possible watchers, I crawled around the confined space
searching for further clues, but found nothing. I was relieved; I had
feared to find bloodstains.
So absorbed was I in the conjectures and suspicions which followed my
discovery that time passed swiftly. A sound from without brought me
back to myself. Stretching out flat, I lifted one edge of the canvas
and
peered out.
There was nothing to be seen— literally nothing. I had miscalculated,
and I cursed my stupidity. The tent was behind a low ridge of tumbled
stones that extended out from the cliff; I could not see the ledge, or
the tomb entrances. This would never do. I must be in a position to
assist Evelyn if the Mummy pursued her; and, in spite of my boasts, I
did not really think it was after me. Squirming out from under the
tent,
I began to crawl forward. Before long I had reached the end of
the rocky ridge and, rising to my knees, peered cautiously around it.
I pride myself on my self-possession; but I confess I almost let out a
cry when I saw what stood beyond the ridge, only a few feet away. I had
never seen it so close before. We claim to be rational, but there is
a
layer of primitive savagery in all of us. My brain sturdily denied
superstition, but some deeply hidden weakness inside whimpered and
cowered at the sight of the thing.
It was a grisly sight in the cold moonlight. In that clear, dry air the
moon gives a queer, deceptive light; small details are visible in it,
but shadows distort and deceive the eyes; the pallid
glow robs objects of
their real color and gives them a sickly
grayish-green shade. The Mummy stood out as if faintly luminescent. The
bandaged hands resembled a leper's stumps. The hands were raised as if
in invocation; the creature stood not twenty feet away, with its back
toward me. It faced the ledge, and the blind head was tilted back as if
the eyeless sockets could see.
If Evelyn carried out our plan, she would shortly emerge from the tomb
and start along the ledge. I expected her; I knew that mere were four
strong, alert men bidden nearby. But when the slight white form
appeared in the dark mouth of the tomb, I started as violently as if I
had seen an actual spirit.
Evelyn stood for a moment staring up at the stars. I knew she was
trying to gather her courage to leave the security of the ledge, and my
heart went out to her. She could not see the Mummy. At the moment she
emerged it had moved with horrid swiftness, sinking down behind a rock
at the cliff's foot.
I have written that there were four defenders close at hand; but I was
not absolutely certain of that fact. Despite Emerson's sneers, I am not
a stupid woman. I had already considered an idea that must have
occurred to my more intelligent readers, and as Evelyn turned and
slowly began to descend, my brain rapidly reviewed this reasoning.
I had been impressed by Walter's insistence that Mohammed had not left
the village on one occasion when we were visited by the Mummy.
Moreover, much as I disliked agreeing with Emerson on any subject, I
felt as he did, that the plot was un-Egyptian— if I may use that term.
Not only was it too sophisticated for the crafty but uneducated mind of
Mohammed, but it smacked quite strongly of European romanticism. It
might have been invented by a reader of gothic novels, inspired by
An
Egyptian Princess
and other
fictional horrors.
If Mohammed was not the Mummy, who was? It is no wonder that a certain
name came immediately
to mind; for he had the
shallow but fertile intelligence, the bizarre sense of humor that
suited the plot.
I was fully aware of the objections to my theory. The greatest was the
question of motive. Why should Lucas, Lord Ellesmere, go to such absurd
extremes in order to frighten his cousin? Or was it I he was trying to
frighten? However, I was not worried about this; Lucas's motives were
beyond my comprehension, and I thought it possible that he had some
insane notion of terrifying Evelyn into leaving Egypt and accepting his
protection. He would never succeed, but he might not have sense enough
to know that. The other objections were more difficult. Lucas might
possibly have caught us up in time to play his role; we had dawdled and
stopped along the way. But he could not have anticipated our stay at
Amarna. It had been purely fortuitous, not known to him in advance.
Despite the objections, I clung to the notion of Lucas's villainy. The
truth is, I wanted him to be a villain— a veritable crocodile, like the
one in the ancient poem, that lay in wait for the lover seeking to
win
his sweetheart. A woman's instinct, I always feel, supercedes logic. So
you may believe that I waited with considerable interest to see whether
Lucas would appear to rescue Evelyn.
My heart beat in sympathy with the girl as she advanced along the path
that led away from safety. She put on a good act of indifference; only
once, as she passed the quarters of Walter and his brother, did
she
falter and glance aside. But she squared her shoulders and went on. She
reached the bottom of the ledge and started out across the sand.
If she continued on the route she had chosen, she would pass too close
to the Mummy for comfort. I wondered if I was the only one who knew the
creature's precise location. I was not sure where the men lay
concealed; perhaps they had not seen the thing. If so, it was incumbent
on me to interfere before Evelyn went much farther. I did not know the
creature's intentions. It would be shock enough if it merely
jumped out and began moaning and waving its arms. But suppose it tried
to touch her? The horror of that, to a girl of Evelyn's sensitive
temperament, would be dreadful. And yet if I moved too precipitately
I
might frighten the thing away before the men could seize it. I
hesitated, in an agony of doubt.
Evelyn was walking straight toward the boulder behind which the Mummy
lay concealed. But—wait! It had been concealed mere; it was there no
longer. While my attention had been fixed on Evelyn it must have slid
away. Where was it now? What was happening? And where were our stalwart
defenders? Except for Evelyn's slim white figure, not a living soul
moved in the moonlight. The silence was so
intense I could hear the
pounding of my heart.
A flash of pale color among the rocks at the foot of the path! How
silently the creature had moved! It
was between Evelyn and the ledge
now; she could not retreat to that point of safety. I could endure the
suspense no longer. I started to rise. At the same moment the Mummy
stepped out into the open,
emitting a low, moaning growl that brought
Evelyn spuming around to confront it.
Thirty paces— not more— separated the grisly monster from its intended
prey. Evelyn's hands went to her throat. She swayed. I tried to get to
my feet— stepped on the folds of my dressing gown— tripped— fell
prostrate, my limbs entangled— and saw, from that position, the next
act
of the drama.
With slow, measured steps the Mummy advanced on Evelyn, who did not
move. Either she was paralyzed by terror or she was carrying out her
part of the plot with what seemed to me excessive devotion. I would
have been in flight by men, and I am not ashamed to admit it. The
blank, featureless face of the thing was more frightening than any
possible distortion or scarred countenance. Two dark hollows, under the
ridges of the brows, were the only sign of eyes.
Scratching at the sand, kicking ineffectually, I shouted. Evelyn did
not even turn her head. She stood as
if mesmerized, her hands clasped on her breast, watching the thing
advance.
Then— just as I was about to explode with horror and frustration—
rescue
came! Walter was the first to appear. In a single great bound he burst
out of the tomb and reached the edge of the cliff. He flung himself
down, preparatory to sliding down the slope. At the same moment Lucas
stepped out from behind the concealment of a heap
of rocks. I was not
even disappointed at the collapse of my theory, I was so relieved to
see him— and
to see the firearm he held. He shouted and pointed the
pistol.
The Mummy stopped. It stood still for a moment, its head turning from
side to side, as if it were considering its next move. Its appearance
of cool deliberation was maddening to me. I finally managed to struggle
free of my encumbering skirts and stagger to my feet. Another shout
from Lucas stopped me as
I was about to run to Evelyn. His meaning was
plain; he did not want me to get into the line of fire. The pistol was
aimed straight at the Mummy's bandaged breast, but Lucas did not shoot;
he meant only to threaten, and I could not help but admire his calm in
that tense moment.
Lucas stepped slowly forward, his gun at the ready. The eyeless head
turned toward him; from the creature came a horrible mewing cry. It was
too much for Evelyn, whose nerves were already strained
to the breaking
point. She swayed and collapsed into a heap on the ground. With another
ghastly moan, the Mummy lumbered toward her.
I felt sure then that the mummy wrappings did not conceal the form of
Mohammed. These people knew firearms and had a healthy respect for
them. Even as the thought passed through my mind, Lucas fired.
The explosion thundered through the silent night. The Mummy stopped and
jerked back. One bandaged paw went to its breast. Holding my breath, I
waited to see it fall. It did not! It came on, more slowly, emitting
that low mewing growl. Lucas took careful aim and fired again. No more
than a dozen yards separated the two; this time I could have sworn I
saw the missile strike, full in the center of the creature's rotting
body. Again it pawed at the place where the bullet had
struck; again it came on.
Lucas stepped back a few paces. His face shone with sweaty pallor; his
open mouth looked like a black wound. He fumbled in his jacket pocket.
I deduced that his weapon held only two bullets and that he
now had to
refill it.
Walter had paused, poised on the edge of the drop, to see what would
ensue. Needless to say, the actions which have taken so long to
describe only occupied a few moments of real time. Now, with a shout of
warning, Walter let himself drop. His booted feet struck the sloping
heap of rocky detritus with a force that started a miniature landslide,
but he did not lose his balance. Slipping, sliding, running, he reached
the bottom and rushed on without a halt.
Lucas was shouting too, but I could not hear him because of the crash
of falling rock. I would not have known he was speaking if I had not
seen his lips move. He had finished loading the gun; he raised it. I
cried out—but too late. Carried on by the impetus of his leap, Walter
flung himself at the menace just as Lucas fired for the third time. And
this time his bullet found a vulnerable target. Walter stood stock
still. His head turned toward Lucas. His expression was one of utter
astonishment. Then his head fell on his breast; his knees gave way; and
he collapsed face down onto the sand. For the space of a single
heartbeat there was not a sound. Lucas stood frozen, the pistol
dangling from his lax hand; his face was a mask of horror. Then, from
the Mummy, came a sound that froze the blood in my veins. The creature
was laughing—howling, rather, with a hideous mirth that resembled the
shrieks of a lost soul. Still laughing, it retreated, and none of the
horrified watchers moved to prevent it. Even after the thing had
vanished from sight around the curve of the cliff, I could hear its
ghastly laughter reverberating from the rocky walls.
had been, or how he had come, I did not know; brain and organs of sight
were hazy with horror. Kneeling by his young brother, Emerson ripped
the bloodstained shirt away from the body. Then he looked up at Lucas,
who had joined us and was staring down at the fallen man.
"Shot in the back," said Emerson, in a voice like none I had heard from
him heretofore. "Your hunting colleagues in England would not approve,
Lord Ellesmere."
"My God," stammered Lucas, finding his voice at last. "Oh, God— I did
not mean— I warned him to keep away, he rushed in, I could not
help----- For the love of heaven, Mr. Emerson, don't say he is—
he is—"
"He is not dead," said Emerson. "Do you think I would be sitting here,
discussing the matter, if you had killed him?"
My knees gave way. I sat down hard on the warm sand.
"Thank God," I whispered.
Emerson gave me a critical look.
"Pull yourself together, Peabody, this is no time for a fit of the
vapors. You had better see to the other victim; I think she has merely
fainted. Walter is not badly hurt. The wound is high and clean.
Fortunately his lordship's weapon uses small-caliber
bullets."
Lucas let out his breath. Some of the color had returned to his face.
"I know you don't like me, Mr. Emerson," he said, with a new and
becoming humility. "But will you believe me when I say that the news
you have just given us is the best I have heard for a long, long time?"
"Hmm," said Emerson, studying him. "Yes, your lordship; if it is any
consolation to you, I do believe
you. Now go and give Amelia a hand
with Evelyn."
Evelyn was stirring feebly when we reached her, and when she learned
what had happened to Walter
she was too concerned about him to think of
herself. It is wonderful what strength love can lend; rising
up from a
faint of terror, she walked at Walter's side as his brother carried him
to his bed, and insisted
on helping me clean and dress the wound.
I was relieved to find that Emerson's assessment was correct. I had not
had any experience with gunshot wounds, but a common-sense knowledge of
anatomy assured me that the bullet had gone through the fleshy part of
the right shoulder, without striking a bone.
I had not the heart to send Evelyn away, but really she was more of a
handicap than a help; whenever I reached for a cloth or a bandage she
was supposed to hand me, I would find her staring bemusedly at the
unconscious lad, tears in her eyes and her feelings writ plain on her
face for all the world to see. I could hardly blame her; Walter
reminded me of the beautiful Greek youth Adonis, dying among the river
reeds. He was slight, but his muscular development was admirable; the
long lashes that shadowed his cheek,
the tumbled curls on his brow, and
the boyish droop of his mouth made a picture that must appeal to
any
woman who is sensitive to beauty and pathos.
Walter was conscious by the time I finished bandaging the wound. He did
not speak at first, only
watched me steadily, and when I had finished
he thanked me with a pallid smile.
His first look, however, had been for Evelyn; and having assured
himself that she was safe, he did not look at her again. As she turned
away with her bowl of water, I saw her lips tremble.
Emerson had produced a new atrocity—a dreadful pipe that smelted like a
hot summer afternoon on a poultry farm — and was sitting in a corner
puffing out clouds of foul smoke. When I had finished with Walter,
Emerson rose to his feet and stretched.
"The evening's entertainment is over, it seems," he remarked. "We may
as well get some sleep for what
is left of the night."
"How can you talk of sleeping?" I demanded. "I am so full of questions
and comments— "
"More of the latter than the former, I fancy," said Emerson, puffing
away at his pipe. "I don't think Walter is up to your conversation,
Peabody. It takes a well man, in his full strength, to— "
"Now, Radcliffe, that will do," Walter interrupted. His voice was weak,
but the smile he gave me was his old sweet smile. "I am not feeling too
bad; and I agree with Miss Amelia that we have much to discuss."
"I, too, agree," said Lucas, breaking a long—for him— silence. "But
first— may I suggest a restorative,
all around? A little brandy might
ease Walter's pain— "
"I do not approve of spirits for such injuries," I said firmly.
Emerson snorted through his pipe, producing a great puff of smoke.
"I am not in much pain," Walter said. "But perhaps brandy might
help—the ladies. They— they have undergone a considerable shock."
So we had our brandy. Emerson seemed to enjoy his very much. Although I
do not ordinarily approve
of spirits, they are of use in some
situations; I felt the need of stimulants myself, and the liquor
lessened Evelyn's pallor. She was still wearing her nightclothes and
dressing gown, not having had time to dress. They were embroidered
lawn, of a pale blue, and I could
see that Lucas admired them.
"Well, Peabody," said Emerson. "What is your first question?"
"Now that is not easy to say. The entire episode has been so
bewildering. . . . First, though, I should like to know what has
happened to Abdullah."
"Good heavens," exclaimed Lucas. "I had quite forgotten him. Where is
the fellow?"
"Don't waste your suspicious on Abdullah," said Emerson. "He is
probably following the Mummy. I told him to do so if we fail to
apprehend it. But I fancy he will be returning soon .... Ah, yes, I
believe I hear him now."
He beamed as complacently as if he had arranged Abdullah's opportune
arrival. The tall, stately form of the foreman now appeared at the
entrance to the tomb. His eyes widened as he beheld Walter, and some
time was wasted on explanations before Abdullah told us his story.
Again, I translate into ordinary English.
He had been stationed by Emerson some distance from the camp. He had
heard the shots but of course had not known what they betokened. They
had, however, alerted him, and thus he was able to catch
sight of the
Mummy when it left us. Its speed amazed him; he kept repeating, "It ran
like a swift young man." He had tried to interfere with the creature.
Indeed, I think he was afraid to do so. But he had summoned up enough
courage to follow it, at a safe distance.
"Where did it go?" I demanded. "To the village?"
Abdullah shook his head.
"Not village. Into the wadi, to the royal tomb. I did not follow; I
thought you need me, I come here."
Emerson laughed shortly.
"So it is the ghost of Khuenaten we have with us? Come, now, Abdullah,
that does not make sense.
Our ghost is an avenging Amonist Priest, if
you remember, not a follower of the heretic king."
"Oh, stop it," I said impatiently. "I cannot blame Abdullah for not
following the thing. We agreed, did we not, that the villain, whoever
he is, must conceal his grisly costume in some remote place. He was on
his way there. Perhaps he went to the village later."
Emerson was about to reply when Evelyn's quiet voice broke in.
"I think we should end the discussion. Waiter ought to rest."
Walter opened his eyes when she spoke, but I had seen the signs of
fatigue too.
"Evelyn is right," I said, rising. "She, too, has had a nasty
experience."
"I am all right," Walter muttered. "Of course you are," I said, with a
cheer I did not feel. Fever commonly follows such wounds, and infection
is rampant in Egypt. But there was no point in anticipating trouble.
"All you need is rest. Come along, Evelyn— Lucas— "
"I must say one thing first." Lucas bent over the pallet where the sick
man lay. "Walter, please tell me
you forgive my clumsiness. I had no
intention— "
"It was very stupid, all the same," said Emerson, as Walter made a
feeble gesture of conciliation.
"You are right," Lucas muttered. "But if you had been in my place— you
saw, I know, but you did not feel the recoil of the pistol, and then
see that ghastly thing come on and on...." With a sudden movement he
pulled the gun from his pocket. "I shall never use this again. There is
one bullet left...."
His arm straightened, pointing the gun out the mouth of the tomb. His
finger was actually tightening on the trigger when Emerson moved. The
man was constantly surprising me; his leap had a tigerish swiftness I
would not have expected. His fingers clasped around Lucas's wrist with
a force that made the younger man cry out.
"You fool," Emerson mumbled around the stem of the pipe. Snatching the
gun from Lucas's palsied hand, he put it in his belt. "The echoes from
a shot in this confined place would
deafen us. Not to mention the danger of a ricochet. ... I will take
charge of your weapon. Lord Ellesmere. Now go to bed."
Lucas left without another word. I felt an unexpected stab of pity as I
watched him go, his shoulders bowed and his steps dragging. Evelyn and
I followed. As soon as she had dropped off to sleep I went back onto
the ledge, and somehow I was not surprised to see Emerson sitting
there. His feet dangling
over empty space, he was smoking his pipe and
staring out at the serene vista of star-strewn sky with apparent
enjoyment.
"Sit down, Peabody," he said, gesturing at the ledge beside him. "That
discussion was getting nowhere, but I think you and I might profit from
a quiet chat."
I sat down.
"You called me Amelia, earlier," I said, somewhat to my own surprise.
"Did I?" Emerson did not look at me. "A moment of aberration, no doubt."
"You were entitled to be distracted," I admitted. "Seeing your brother
struck down.... It was not entirely Lucas's fault, Emerson. Walter
rushed into the path of the bullet."
"In view of the fact that his lordship had already fired twice without
result, I would have supposed he would have sensed enough to stop." I
shivered.
"Get a shawl, if you are cold," said Emerson, smoking.
"I am not cold. I am frightened. Are none of us willing to admit the
consequences of what we saw? Emerson, the bullet struck that thing. I
saw them strike."
"Did you?"
"Yes! Where were you, that you did not see?"
"I saw its hands, or paws, clutch at its breast," Emerson admitted.
"Peabody, I expected better of you. Are you becoming a spiritualist?"
"I hope I am reasonable enough not to deny an idea simply because it is
unorthodox," I retorted. "One
by one our rational
explanations are failing."
"I can think of at least two rational explanations for the failure of
the bullets to harm the creature," Emerson said. "A weapon of that type
is extremely inaccurate, even in the hands of an expert, which I
believe his lordship is not. He may have fired two clean misses, and
the Mummy put on a performance
of being hit in order to increase our
mystification."
"That is possible," I admitted. "However, if I stood in the Mummy's
shoes— or sandals, rather— I
should hate to depend on Lucas's bad
marksmanship. What is your other explanation."
Some form of armor," Emerson replied promptly. "I don't suppose you
read novels, Peabody? A gentleman named Rider Haggard is gaining
popularity with his adventurous tales; his most recent book, King
Solomon's Mines, concerns the fantastic experiences of three English
explorers who seek the lost diamond mines of that biblical monarch. At
one point in the tale he mentions chain mail, and its usefulness in
deflecting the swords and spears of primitive tribes. I believe it
would also stop a small-caliber bullet. Have we not all heard of men
being saved from bullet wounds by a book— it is usually a Bible—
carried
in their breast pocket? I have often thought it a pity that our troops
in the Sudan are not equipped with armor. Even a padded leather jerkin,
such as the old English foot soldiers wore, would save many a life."
"Yes," I admitted. "The wrappings could cover some such protective
padding. And I have read of Crusaders' armor being found in this
mysterious continent, even in Cairo antique shops. But would such an
ingenious idea occur to a man like Mohammed?"
"Let us abandon that idea once and for all. Mohammed was not the Mummy."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Its height," Emerson replied calmly. "For a moment Walter was close
enough so that I could measure their comparative height. It was as tall
as he, or taller. Mohammed and the
other villagers are small people. Bad diet and poor living
conditions----- "
"How can you be so cool? Discussing diet, at such at a time ----- "
"Why," said Emerson, puffing away, "I am beginning to enjoy myself.
Lord Ellesmere's sporting instincts have infected me; he reminds me
that an Englishman's duty is to preserve icy detachment under any and
all circumstances. Even if he were being boiled to provide a cannibal's
dinner it would be incumbent upon him to— "
"I would expect that you would be taking notes on the dietary habits of
aborigines as the water bubbled around your neck," I admitted. "But I
cannot believe you are really so calm about Walter's injury."
"That is perceptive of you. In fact, I mean to catch the person who is
responsible for injuring him."
I believed that. Emerson's voice was even, but it held a note that made
me glad I was not the person he referred to:
"You have left off your bandages," I said suddenly.
"You are absolutely brilliant tonight, Peabody."
"I am sure you should not— "
"I cannot afford to pamper myself. Matters are approaching a climax."
"Then what shall we do?"
"You, asking for advice? Let me feel your brow, Peabody, I am sure you
must be fevered."
"Really, your manners are atrocious," I exclaimed angrily.
Emerson raised one hand in a command for silence.
"We had better take a stroll," he said. "Unless you want to waken Miss
Evelyn. I don't know why you can't carry on reasonable discussion
without raising your voice."
He offered me a hand to help me rise; but the jerk with which he lifted
me to my feet was not gentle; for a moment my weight dangled from his
arm in an undignified manner. He set me on my feet and walked off. I
followed, and caught him up at the bottom of the cliff. We strolled
along in silence for a time. Even Emerson was moved by the beauty of
the night.
So saying, he stalked away. He was followed by Walter. Lucas chuckled
and rubbed his hands together.
"What an adventure! I can hardly wait!"
"Nor I," said Evelyn. "Amelia, will you not reconsider?"
"Certainly not," I said in a loud voice, and walked off with my head
held stiffly. I did not like leaving them alone together, but I felt it
wise to add to the impression of ill will. It would be helpful later,
when Evelyn and I staged our quarrel.
It was a one-sided argument, for Evelyn could not even pretend to shout
at me. I made up the deficiency, and ended the argument by storming out
of our tomb with my pillow and counterpane under my arm. I carried them
down the ledge and into the little tent Michael had been occupying. Any
watcher might readily assume that Evelyn and I had had a falling out,
and that I had refused to share our sleeping quarters.
I could not strike a light, since it would have been visible through
the canvas walls of the tent. It was not an honest English tent, only a
low shelter of canvas; I could not stand erect in it. Squatting on the
sand which was the floor of the shelter, I thought seriously of the man
who had been its occupant. I was not at all convinced that Michael had
left of his own free will. Men are frail creatures, of course; one does
not expect them to exhibit the steadfastness of women. All the same, I
did not like having my judgment of Michael disproved, and I determined
to search the tent in the hope of finding some clue. There was just
enough light from without to show me that Michael's scanty possessions
had been removed; but as I wriggled
around, my fingers touched an object buried in the sand. I dug it out.
I did not need to see the moonlight sparkling off its metallic surface
to comprehend what it was. A crucifix. Part of the chain was still
there, but only part. It had been snapped, not unfastened in the usual
way.
My fingers closed tightly over the small object. Michael would never
have left it; it was the only thing of value he owned, as well as an
amulet against evil. The breaking of the chain confirmed my dread. It
must have been snapped during a struggle.
Heedless of possible watchers, I crawled around the confined space
searching for further clues, but found nothing. I was relieved; I had
feared to find bloodstains.
So absorbed was I in the conjectures and suspicions which followed my
discovery that time passed swiftly. A sound from without brought me
back to myself. Stretching out flat, I lifted one edge of the canvas
and
peered out.
There was nothing to be seen— literally nothing. I had miscalculated,
and I cursed my stupidity. The tent was behind a low ridge of tumbled
stones that extended out from the cliff; I could not see the ledge, or
the tomb entrances. This would never do. I must be in a position to
assist Evelyn if the Mummy pursued her; and, in spite of my boasts, I
did not really think it was after me. Squirming out from under the
tent,
I began to crawl forward. Before long I had reached the end of
the rocky ridge and, rising to my knees, peered cautiously around it.
I pride myself on my self-possession; but I confess I almost let out a
cry when I saw what stood beyond the ridge, only a few feet away. I had
never seen it so close before. We claim to be rational, but there is
a
layer of primitive savagery in all of us. My brain sturdily denied
superstition, but some deeply hidden weakness inside whimpered and
cowered at the sight of the thing.
It was a grisly sight in the cold moonlight. In that clear, dry air the
moon gives a queer, deceptive light; small details are visible in it,
but shadows distort and deceive the eyes; the pallid
glow robs objects of
their real color and gives them a sickly
grayish-green shade. The Mummy stood out as if faintly luminescent. The
bandaged hands resembled a leper's stumps. The hands were raised as if
in invocation; the creature stood not twenty feet away, with its back
toward me. It faced the ledge, and the blind head was tilted back as if
the eyeless sockets could see.
If Evelyn carried out our plan, she would shortly emerge from the tomb
and start along the ledge. I expected her; I knew that mere were four
strong, alert men bidden nearby. But when the slight white form
appeared in the dark mouth of the tomb, I started as violently as if I
had seen an actual spirit.
Evelyn stood for a moment staring up at the stars. I knew she was
trying to gather her courage to leave the security of the ledge, and my
heart went out to her. She could not see the Mummy. At the moment she
emerged it had moved with horrid swiftness, sinking down behind a rock
at the cliff's foot.
I have written that there were four defenders close at hand; but I was
not absolutely certain of that fact. Despite Emerson's sneers, I am not
a stupid woman. I had already considered an idea that must have
occurred to my more intelligent readers, and as Evelyn turned and
slowly began to descend, my brain rapidly reviewed this reasoning.
I had been impressed by Walter's insistence that Mohammed had not left
the village on one occasion when we were visited by the Mummy.
Moreover, much as I disliked agreeing with Emerson on any subject, I
felt as he did, that the plot was un-Egyptian— if I may use that term.
Not only was it too sophisticated for the crafty but uneducated mind of
Mohammed, but it smacked quite strongly of European romanticism. It
might have been invented by a reader of gothic novels, inspired by
An
Egyptian Princess
and other
fictional horrors.
If Mohammed was not the Mummy, who was? It is no wonder that a certain
name came immediately
to mind; for he had the
shallow but fertile intelligence, the bizarre sense of humor that
suited the plot.
I was fully aware of the objections to my theory. The greatest was the
question of motive. Why should Lucas, Lord Ellesmere, go to such absurd
extremes in order to frighten his cousin? Or was it I he was trying to
frighten? However, I was not worried about this; Lucas's motives were
beyond my comprehension, and I thought it possible that he had some
insane notion of terrifying Evelyn into leaving Egypt and accepting his
protection. He would never succeed, but he might not have sense enough
to know that. The other objections were more difficult. Lucas might
possibly have caught us up in time to play his role; we had dawdled and
stopped along the way. But he could not have anticipated our stay at
Amarna. It had been purely fortuitous, not known to him in advance.
Despite the objections, I clung to the notion of Lucas's villainy. The
truth is, I wanted him to be a villain— a veritable crocodile, like the
one in the ancient poem, that lay in wait for the lover seeking to
win
his sweetheart. A woman's instinct, I always feel, supercedes logic. So
you may believe that I waited with considerable interest to see whether
Lucas would appear to rescue Evelyn.
My heart beat in sympathy with the girl as she advanced along the path
that led away from safety. She put on a good act of indifference; only
once, as she passed the quarters of Walter and his brother, did
she
falter and glance aside. But she squared her shoulders and went on. She
reached the bottom of the ledge and started out across the sand.
If she continued on the route she had chosen, she would pass too close
to the Mummy for comfort. I wondered if I was the only one who knew the
creature's precise location. I was not sure where the men lay
concealed; perhaps they had not seen the thing. If so, it was incumbent
on me to interfere before Evelyn went much farther. I did not know the
creature's intentions. It would be shock enough if it merely
jumped out and began moaning and waving its arms. But suppose it tried
to touch her? The horror of that, to a girl of Evelyn's sensitive
temperament, would be dreadful. And yet if I moved too precipitately
I
might frighten the thing away before the men could seize it. I
hesitated, in an agony of doubt.
Evelyn was walking straight toward the boulder behind which the Mummy
lay concealed. But—wait! It had been concealed mere; it was there no
longer. While my attention had been fixed on Evelyn it must have slid
away. Where was it now? What was happening? And where were our stalwart
defenders? Except for Evelyn's slim white figure, not a living soul
moved in the moonlight. The silence was so
intense I could hear the
pounding of my heart.
A flash of pale color among the rocks at the foot of the path! How
silently the creature had moved! It
was between Evelyn and the ledge
now; she could not retreat to that point of safety. I could endure the
suspense no longer. I started to rise. At the same moment the Mummy
stepped out into the open,
emitting a low, moaning growl that brought
Evelyn spuming around to confront it.
Thirty paces— not more— separated the grisly monster from its intended
prey. Evelyn's hands went to her throat. She swayed. I tried to get to
my feet— stepped on the folds of my dressing gown— tripped— fell
prostrate, my limbs entangled— and saw, from that position, the next
act
of the drama.
With slow, measured steps the Mummy advanced on Evelyn, who did not
move. Either she was paralyzed by terror or she was carrying out her
part of the plot with what seemed to me excessive devotion. I would
have been in flight by men, and I am not ashamed to admit it. The
blank, featureless face of the thing was more frightening than any
possible distortion or scarred countenance. Two dark hollows, under the
ridges of the brows, were the only sign of eyes.
Scratching at the sand, kicking ineffectually, I shouted. Evelyn did
not even turn her head. She stood as
if mesmerized, her hands clasped on her breast, watching the thing
advance.
Then— just as I was about to explode with horror and frustration—
rescue
came! Walter was the first to appear. In a single great bound he burst
out of the tomb and reached the edge of the cliff. He flung himself
down, preparatory to sliding down the slope. At the same moment Lucas
stepped out from behind the concealment of a heap
of rocks. I was not
even disappointed at the collapse of my theory, I was so relieved to
see him— and
to see the firearm he held. He shouted and pointed the
pistol.
The Mummy stopped. It stood still for a moment, its head turning from
side to side, as if it were considering its next move. Its appearance
of cool deliberation was maddening to me. I finally managed to struggle
free of my encumbering skirts and stagger to my feet. Another shout
from Lucas stopped me as
I was about to run to Evelyn. His meaning was
plain; he did not want me to get into the line of fire. The pistol was
aimed straight at the Mummy's bandaged breast, but Lucas did not shoot;
he meant only to threaten, and I could not help but admire his calm in
that tense moment.
Lucas stepped slowly forward, his gun at the ready. The eyeless head
turned toward him; from the creature came a horrible mewing cry. It was
too much for Evelyn, whose nerves were already strained
to the breaking
point. She swayed and collapsed into a heap on the ground. With another
ghastly moan, the Mummy lumbered toward her.
I felt sure then that the mummy wrappings did not conceal the form of
Mohammed. These people knew firearms and had a healthy respect for
them. Even as the thought passed through my mind, Lucas fired.
The explosion thundered through the silent night. The Mummy stopped and
jerked back. One bandaged paw went to its breast. Holding my breath, I
waited to see it fall. It did not! It came on, more slowly, emitting
that low mewing growl. Lucas took careful aim and fired again. No more
than a dozen yards separated the two; this time I could have sworn I
saw the missile strike, full in the center of the creature's rotting
body. Again it pawed at the place where the bullet had
struck; again it came on.
Lucas stepped back a few paces. His face shone with sweaty pallor; his
open mouth looked like a black wound. He fumbled in his jacket pocket.
I deduced that his weapon held only two bullets and that he
now had to
refill it.
Walter had paused, poised on the edge of the drop, to see what would
ensue. Needless to say, the actions which have taken so long to
describe only occupied a few moments of real time. Now, with a shout of
warning, Walter let himself drop. His booted feet struck the sloping
heap of rocky detritus with a force that started a miniature landslide,
but he did not lose his balance. Slipping, sliding, running, he reached
the bottom and rushed on without a halt.
Lucas was shouting too, but I could not hear him because of the crash
of falling rock. I would not have known he was speaking if I had not
seen his lips move. He had finished loading the gun; he raised it. I
cried out—but too late. Carried on by the impetus of his leap, Walter
flung himself at the menace just as Lucas fired for the third time. And
this time his bullet found a vulnerable target. Walter stood stock
still. His head turned toward Lucas. His expression was one of utter
astonishment. Then his head fell on his breast; his knees gave way; and
he collapsed face down onto the sand. For the space of a single
heartbeat there was not a sound. Lucas stood frozen, the pistol
dangling from his lax hand; his face was a mask of horror. Then, from
the Mummy, came a sound that froze the blood in my veins. The creature
was laughing—howling, rather, with a hideous mirth that resembled the
shrieks of a lost soul. Still laughing, it retreated, and none of the
horrified watchers moved to prevent it. Even after the thing had
vanished from sight around the curve of the cliff, I could hear its
ghastly laughter reverberating from the rocky walls.
9
WHEN I reached Walter's side I found Emerson there before me. Where hehad been, or how he had come, I did not know; brain and organs of sight
were hazy with horror. Kneeling by his young brother, Emerson ripped
the bloodstained shirt away from the body. Then he looked up at Lucas,
who had joined us and was staring down at the fallen man.
"Shot in the back," said Emerson, in a voice like none I had heard from
him heretofore. "Your hunting colleagues in England would not approve,
Lord Ellesmere."
"My God," stammered Lucas, finding his voice at last. "Oh, God— I did
not mean— I warned him to keep away, he rushed in, I could not
help----- For the love of heaven, Mr. Emerson, don't say he is—
he is—"
"He is not dead," said Emerson. "Do you think I would be sitting here,
discussing the matter, if you had killed him?"
My knees gave way. I sat down hard on the warm sand.
"Thank God," I whispered.
Emerson gave me a critical look.
"Pull yourself together, Peabody, this is no time for a fit of the
vapors. You had better see to the other victim; I think she has merely
fainted. Walter is not badly hurt. The wound is high and clean.
Fortunately his lordship's weapon uses small-caliber
bullets."
Lucas let out his breath. Some of the color had returned to his face.
"I know you don't like me, Mr. Emerson," he said, with a new and
becoming humility. "But will you believe me when I say that the news
you have just given us is the best I have heard for a long, long time?"
"Hmm," said Emerson, studying him. "Yes, your lordship; if it is any
consolation to you, I do believe
you. Now go and give Amelia a hand
with Evelyn."
Evelyn was stirring feebly when we reached her, and when she learned
what had happened to Walter
she was too concerned about him to think of
herself. It is wonderful what strength love can lend; rising
up from a
faint of terror, she walked at Walter's side as his brother carried him
to his bed, and insisted
on helping me clean and dress the wound.
I was relieved to find that Emerson's assessment was correct. I had not
had any experience with gunshot wounds, but a common-sense knowledge of
anatomy assured me that the bullet had gone through the fleshy part of
the right shoulder, without striking a bone.
I had not the heart to send Evelyn away, but really she was more of a
handicap than a help; whenever I reached for a cloth or a bandage she
was supposed to hand me, I would find her staring bemusedly at the
unconscious lad, tears in her eyes and her feelings writ plain on her
face for all the world to see. I could hardly blame her; Walter
reminded me of the beautiful Greek youth Adonis, dying among the river
reeds. He was slight, but his muscular development was admirable; the
long lashes that shadowed his cheek,
the tumbled curls on his brow, and
the boyish droop of his mouth made a picture that must appeal to
any
woman who is sensitive to beauty and pathos.
Walter was conscious by the time I finished bandaging the wound. He did
not speak at first, only
watched me steadily, and when I had finished
he thanked me with a pallid smile.
His first look, however, had been for Evelyn; and having assured
himself that she was safe, he did not look at her again. As she turned
away with her bowl of water, I saw her lips tremble.
Emerson had produced a new atrocity—a dreadful pipe that smelted like a
hot summer afternoon on a poultry farm — and was sitting in a corner
puffing out clouds of foul smoke. When I had finished with Walter,
Emerson rose to his feet and stretched.
"The evening's entertainment is over, it seems," he remarked. "We may
as well get some sleep for what
is left of the night."
"How can you talk of sleeping?" I demanded. "I am so full of questions
and comments— "
"More of the latter than the former, I fancy," said Emerson, puffing
away at his pipe. "I don't think Walter is up to your conversation,
Peabody. It takes a well man, in his full strength, to— "
"Now, Radcliffe, that will do," Walter interrupted. His voice was weak,
but the smile he gave me was his old sweet smile. "I am not feeling too
bad; and I agree with Miss Amelia that we have much to discuss."
"I, too, agree," said Lucas, breaking a long—for him— silence. "But
first— may I suggest a restorative,
all around? A little brandy might
ease Walter's pain— "
"I do not approve of spirits for such injuries," I said firmly.
Emerson snorted through his pipe, producing a great puff of smoke.
"I am not in much pain," Walter said. "But perhaps brandy might
help—the ladies. They— they have undergone a considerable shock."
So we had our brandy. Emerson seemed to enjoy his very much. Although I
do not ordinarily approve
of spirits, they are of use in some
situations; I felt the need of stimulants myself, and the liquor
lessened Evelyn's pallor. She was still wearing her nightclothes and
dressing gown, not having had time to dress. They were embroidered
lawn, of a pale blue, and I could
see that Lucas admired them.
"Well, Peabody," said Emerson. "What is your first question?"
"Now that is not easy to say. The entire episode has been so
bewildering. . . . First, though, I should like to know what has
happened to Abdullah."
"Good heavens," exclaimed Lucas. "I had quite forgotten him. Where is
the fellow?"
"Don't waste your suspicious on Abdullah," said Emerson. "He is
probably following the Mummy. I told him to do so if we fail to
apprehend it. But I fancy he will be returning soon .... Ah, yes, I
believe I hear him now."
He beamed as complacently as if he had arranged Abdullah's opportune
arrival. The tall, stately form of the foreman now appeared at the
entrance to the tomb. His eyes widened as he beheld Walter, and some
time was wasted on explanations before Abdullah told us his story.
Again, I translate into ordinary English.
He had been stationed by Emerson some distance from the camp. He had
heard the shots but of course had not known what they betokened. They
had, however, alerted him, and thus he was able to catch
sight of the
Mummy when it left us. Its speed amazed him; he kept repeating, "It ran
like a swift young man." He had tried to interfere with the creature.
Indeed, I think he was afraid to do so. But he had summoned up enough
courage to follow it, at a safe distance.
"Where did it go?" I demanded. "To the village?"
Abdullah shook his head.
"Not village. Into the wadi, to the royal tomb. I did not follow; I
thought you need me, I come here."
Emerson laughed shortly.
"So it is the ghost of Khuenaten we have with us? Come, now, Abdullah,
that does not make sense.
Our ghost is an avenging Amonist Priest, if
you remember, not a follower of the heretic king."
"Oh, stop it," I said impatiently. "I cannot blame Abdullah for not
following the thing. We agreed, did we not, that the villain, whoever
he is, must conceal his grisly costume in some remote place. He was on
his way there. Perhaps he went to the village later."
Emerson was about to reply when Evelyn's quiet voice broke in.
"I think we should end the discussion. Waiter ought to rest."
Walter opened his eyes when she spoke, but I had seen the signs of
fatigue too.
"Evelyn is right," I said, rising. "She, too, has had a nasty
experience."
"I am all right," Walter muttered. "Of course you are," I said, with a
cheer I did not feel. Fever commonly follows such wounds, and infection
is rampant in Egypt. But there was no point in anticipating trouble.
"All you need is rest. Come along, Evelyn— Lucas— "
"I must say one thing first." Lucas bent over the pallet where the sick
man lay. "Walter, please tell me
you forgive my clumsiness. I had no
intention— "
"It was very stupid, all the same," said Emerson, as Walter made a
feeble gesture of conciliation.
"You are right," Lucas muttered. "But if you had been in my place— you
saw, I know, but you did not feel the recoil of the pistol, and then
see that ghastly thing come on and on...." With a sudden movement he
pulled the gun from his pocket. "I shall never use this again. There is
one bullet left...."
His arm straightened, pointing the gun out the mouth of the tomb. His
finger was actually tightening on the trigger when Emerson moved. The
man was constantly surprising me; his leap had a tigerish swiftness I
would not have expected. His fingers clasped around Lucas's wrist with
a force that made the younger man cry out.
"You fool," Emerson mumbled around the stem of the pipe. Snatching the
gun from Lucas's palsied hand, he put it in his belt. "The echoes from
a shot in this confined place would
deafen us. Not to mention the danger of a ricochet. ... I will take
charge of your weapon. Lord Ellesmere. Now go to bed."
Lucas left without another word. I felt an unexpected stab of pity as I
watched him go, his shoulders bowed and his steps dragging. Evelyn and
I followed. As soon as she had dropped off to sleep I went back onto
the ledge, and somehow I was not surprised to see Emerson sitting
there. His feet dangling
over empty space, he was smoking his pipe and
staring out at the serene vista of star-strewn sky with apparent
enjoyment.
"Sit down, Peabody," he said, gesturing at the ledge beside him. "That
discussion was getting nowhere, but I think you and I might profit from
a quiet chat."
I sat down.
"You called me Amelia, earlier," I said, somewhat to my own surprise.
"Did I?" Emerson did not look at me. "A moment of aberration, no doubt."
"You were entitled to be distracted," I admitted. "Seeing your brother
struck down.... It was not entirely Lucas's fault, Emerson. Walter
rushed into the path of the bullet."
"In view of the fact that his lordship had already fired twice without
result, I would have supposed he would have sensed enough to stop." I
shivered.
"Get a shawl, if you are cold," said Emerson, smoking.
"I am not cold. I am frightened. Are none of us willing to admit the
consequences of what we saw? Emerson, the bullet struck that thing. I
saw them strike."
"Did you?"
"Yes! Where were you, that you did not see?"
"I saw its hands, or paws, clutch at its breast," Emerson admitted.
"Peabody, I expected better of you. Are you becoming a spiritualist?"
"I hope I am reasonable enough not to deny an idea simply because it is
unorthodox," I retorted. "One
by one our rational
explanations are failing."
"I can think of at least two rational explanations for the failure of
the bullets to harm the creature," Emerson said. "A weapon of that type
is extremely inaccurate, even in the hands of an expert, which I
believe his lordship is not. He may have fired two clean misses, and
the Mummy put on a performance
of being hit in order to increase our
mystification."
"That is possible," I admitted. "However, if I stood in the Mummy's
shoes— or sandals, rather— I
should hate to depend on Lucas's bad
marksmanship. What is your other explanation."
Some form of armor," Emerson replied promptly. "I don't suppose you
read novels, Peabody? A gentleman named Rider Haggard is gaining
popularity with his adventurous tales; his most recent book, King
Solomon's Mines, concerns the fantastic experiences of three English
explorers who seek the lost diamond mines of that biblical monarch. At
one point in the tale he mentions chain mail, and its usefulness in
deflecting the swords and spears of primitive tribes. I believe it
would also stop a small-caliber bullet. Have we not all heard of men
being saved from bullet wounds by a book— it is usually a Bible—
carried
in their breast pocket? I have often thought it a pity that our troops
in the Sudan are not equipped with armor. Even a padded leather jerkin,
such as the old English foot soldiers wore, would save many a life."
"Yes," I admitted. "The wrappings could cover some such protective
padding. And I have read of Crusaders' armor being found in this
mysterious continent, even in Cairo antique shops. But would such an
ingenious idea occur to a man like Mohammed?"
"Let us abandon that idea once and for all. Mohammed was not the Mummy."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Its height," Emerson replied calmly. "For a moment Walter was close
enough so that I could measure their comparative height. It was as tall
as he, or taller. Mohammed and the
other villagers are small people. Bad diet and poor living
conditions----- "
"How can you be so cool? Discussing diet, at such at a time ----- "
"Why," said Emerson, puffing away, "I am beginning to enjoy myself.
Lord Ellesmere's sporting instincts have infected me; he reminds me
that an Englishman's duty is to preserve icy detachment under any and
all circumstances. Even if he were being boiled to provide a cannibal's
dinner it would be incumbent upon him to— "
"I would expect that you would be taking notes on the dietary habits of
aborigines as the water bubbled around your neck," I admitted. "But I
cannot believe you are really so calm about Walter's injury."
"That is perceptive of you. In fact, I mean to catch the person who is
responsible for injuring him."
I believed that. Emerson's voice was even, but it held a note that made
me glad I was not the person he referred to:
"You have left off your bandages," I said suddenly.
"You are absolutely brilliant tonight, Peabody."
"I am sure you should not— "
"I cannot afford to pamper myself. Matters are approaching a climax."
"Then what shall we do?"
"You, asking for advice? Let me feel your brow, Peabody, I am sure you
must be fevered."
"Really, your manners are atrocious," I exclaimed angrily.
Emerson raised one hand in a command for silence.
"We had better take a stroll," he said. "Unless you want to waken Miss
Evelyn. I don't know why you can't carry on reasonable discussion
without raising your voice."
He offered me a hand to help me rise; but the jerk with which he lifted
me to my feet was not gentle; for a moment my weight dangled from his
arm in an undignified manner. He set me on my feet and walked off. I
followed, and caught him up at the bottom of the cliff. We strolled
along in silence for a time. Even Emerson was moved by the beauty of
the night.
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