The Mummy Case (30 page)

"That explanation had of course occurred to me," said Emerson, stroking his chin. "But why did the thieves steal the mummy case back from her if they meant her to smuggle their stolen goods out of the country?"

"Because
we
were interested in it," I explained. "Don't you see, Emerson? The baroness is a woman of volatile and impetuous character and she was trying to make an impression on you. She offered the mummy case to you upon one occasion; though she spoke half in jest, there was a chance she might have gone through with the plan. The thieves had to retrieve it. They extracted the stolen goods and destroyed the mummy case, having no more use for it."

"I perceive several difficulties wit' dat explanation, Mama," said Ramses.

"Hush, Ramses." Emerson pondered. "If that idea is correct, Peabody, the baroness cannot be the Master Criminal."

"I suppose you are right, Emerson."

"Cheer up, Peabody, it is only an idea. We may yet think of something that proves the baroness guilty." Emerson grinned at me.

"The baroness was only one of our suspects," I replied. "Several of the others were present that evening, when the baroness offered you the mummy case. Or one of the servants—if he was in the pay of the Master Criminal he could have warned his superior that the hiding place was no longer safe."

"But who is that unknown superior? (If you have no objection, Peabody, I prefer that term to 'Master Criminal,' which smacks too strongly of the type of sensational literature to which I object.) Our deductions may be valid so far as they go, but we are still in the dark as to the identity of the person who is behind all this."

"We will catch him, Emerson," I said reassuringly. "We have never failed yet."

Emerson did not reply. Ramses sat swinging his feet—one bare, one enclosed in a red morocco slipper—and looking pensive. After an interval Emerson said, "We may as well give it up for the time being. Off to bed, my boy; it is very late. I regret having kept you from your rest."

"Dere is no need to apologize, Papa. I found de discussion most stimulating. Good night, Mama. Good night, Papa. Come along, de cat Bastet."

We replied in kind—Emerson and I in words, Bastet by falling in behind Ramses as he walked to the door. Just before it closed behind him I heard him say musingly, "What is a mummy
case? A most provocative question__What indeed is a mummy
case? A mummy case is... A mummy case..."

I began to agree with Emerson, that I would rather not hear those words again.

The following day saw the moment I had awaited so long—the beginning of work on our pyramids (or, to be precise, our pyramid, Emerson having selected the northernmost of the two). Dare I confess the truth? I believe I do dare. Though a measurable improvement over Roman mummies and Christian bones, the pitiful excuse for a pyramid I saw before me held little charm. Too late, alas, I knew I should not have yielded to the temptation to explore the Bent Pyramid, well-nigh irresistible as that temptation had been.

Nor was Emerson his usual cheerful self. Something was troubling him—my affectionate perception told me that—but it was not until that evening, when we set to work recording the activities of the day, that he deigned to confide in me.

We worked in silence for some time, at opposite ends of the long table, with the lamp shedding a pool of brightness between us. From time to time I glanced at Emerson, but always found him writing busily. All at once my labors were interrupted by a loud "Curse it!" and the whiz of a missile through the air. The pen hit the wall with a spattering of ink, and fell to the floor.

I looked up. Emerson's elbows were on the table. His hands clutched his hair. "What is wrong, Emerson?" I asked.

"I cannot concentrate, Peabody. Something is nagging at my mind. I felt sure you would sense my distraction, but every time I looked at you you were busy writing, and I did not want to interrupt."

"But I felt the same," I cried eagerly. "Our mental communication is truly remarkable, Emerson. I have noticed it often. What is troubling you?"

"Do you remember the intrusive mummy we found a few days after the robbery of the dahabeeyah?"

I had to think for a few moments before the memory returned. "I believe I do. On the edge of the Christian cemetery, was it not?"

"Yes. I wondered at the time__" Emerson leaped to his feet.

"Do you recall where you put it?"

"Certainly. Nothing is stored away in my expedition house without my having a distinct... Emerson! I believe I know what you are thinking."

We collided in the doorway. "Just a moment," I said breathlessly. "Let us not be precipitate. Fetch a light and I will call John; we will need to move a few objects to reach the mummy."

With John's assistance we removed the mummy from its shelf and carried it back to the parlor. Emerson cleared the table by the simple expedient of sweeping his papers onto the floor, and the mummy was placed on its surface.

"Now," said Emerson. "Look at it, Peabody."

There was nothing out of the ordinary about the mummy, except for the arrangement of the wrappings. Instead of being wound haphazardly around the body, the strips of linen were arranged in complex patterns of intersecting lozenges. It was this technique, among other factors, that had enabled Emerson to date it. So ornate were some of the designs I had sometimes wondered whether there were pattern books to which the embalmers might refer. Some mummies of that period had cartonnage masks. Others had painted panels with a portrait of the deceased laid over the bandaged head. In the case of our mummy there was neither mask nor portrait panel, only a shapeless expanse of bandages.

"It has been removed," said Emerson, as I ran an inquiring hand over this part of the mummy.

"I believe you are right, Emerson. There are streaks of glue, or some other adhesive, remaining, and the bandages seem to have been disturbed."

"And," Emerson concluded, "here it is."

Over the featureless head he laid the portrait panel he had rescued from Abd el Atti's shop.

John gasped. The painting, which was remarkably lifelike, animated the whole anonymous bundle and changed its character. A woman lay before us, swathed in grave clothes. Her great liquid dark eyes seemed to return our curious stares with an expression of gentle inquiry; the curved lips smiled at our consternation.

"Two pieces of the puzzle," said Emerson. "All we need now is a coffin."

"It is destroyed—burned," I said certainly. "This is the baroness's mummy, Emerson."

"I believe so, Peabody. As I watched the coffin burn the other night, I was struck by the fact that it was so quickly consumed, with little remaining except ashes. Certainly these mummified bodies, saturated with bitumen, burn readily, but there ought to have been some sign of its presence—a scrap of bone or the remains of an amulet. John—"

The young man jumped. His eyes were fixed in horrified fascination on the mummy. "Sir," he stuttered.

"You put the mummy case in the storeroom. Did you notice any difference in the weight, compared to the ones you had handled before?"

"It was not so heavy as the others," John said.

"Why the devil didn't you say so?" I demanded.

"Now, Peabody, don't scold the boy. He is not accustomed to handling mummy cases; one cannot expect him to realize that the fact was significant."

"True. I apologize, John."

"Oh, madam—" John broke off with a gulp. His eyes widened till the whites showed around the pupils. Emerson had picked up a knife and poised it over the breast of the mummy. "Oh, sir—oh, my goodness—sir—"

"I don't want to disturb the pattern of the bandaging," Emerson explained. "The fabric closest to the body is probably set in a solid mass anyway." The muscles on his forearms stood out as he forced the knife through the layers of linen.

John yelped and covered his eyes with his hands.

"Hmmm," said Emerson, cutting delicately. "Here's one—a djed pillar in blue faience. The heart scarab should be nearby. ... Yes, and a rather good specimen too. Green feldspar."

"He is looking for amulets," I told John. "Magical objects, you know. Quantities of them were wrapped in with the bandages. The djed pillar indicated stability, the heart scarab insured that the heart—the seat of the intelligence—would not be taken away by demons. These two amulets are almost always found in the chest area—"

"Don't tell me about it, madam," John begged, pressing his hands tightly over his eyes.

Emerson threw down the knife. "There is no need to dismember the specimen further. Doubtless we would find more amulets and ornaments—the lady appears to have been moderately well-to-do—but the point has been made, I believe."

I nodded. "The mummy and its accoutrements are as unremarkable as the coffin. How very vexing! Come, come, John, Professor Emerson is finished; don't stand there like a model posing for a statue of horror."

John uncovered his eyes, but kept them resolutely turned away from the mummy. "I beg pardon, sir and madam. It was just—she looks so real, lying there like that."

Now there seemed to be a look of mild reproach in the luminous dark eyes. I picked up a coverlet from the sofa and tossed it over the mutilated body. John let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, madam. May I take her back to the storeroom now?"

"'It,' not 'she,'" Emerson said shortly. "You will never make an archaeologist, John, if you allow such bathetic thoughts to intrude."

"Thank you, sir, but I don't want to be an archaeologist. Not that it isn't useful work, sir, I don't say that; but I don't think I 'ave the temperament for it."

"I am afraid you are right, John. It is a pity you cannot emulate ME. These are only specimens; they have no identity; one must regard them with calm dispassion and not allow sentimentality to affect one." He had stretched out his hand to remove the portrait panel. For a moment his fingers hovered. Then he said, "Fasten it on, Amelia, or it will fall and be broken when the mummy is moved."

It would have been simpler to return the panel to the padded box I had prepared for it, but I did not make that suggestion. I placed the padding carefully over the portrait and bound it in place with strips of cloth. Wrapping the coverlet around the mummy, John lifted it in his arms.

Lamp in hand, I accompanied him as he carried it back to the storeroom. If I may say so, the subject was worthy of one of our finest painters—the somber shadows of the ruined cloister, the single bright circle of lamplight, and the mighty form of the young man pacing in measured strides with the white-wrapped form held to his breast. I was not unsympathetic with John's mood, but I did hope he was not about to transfer his affections from Charity to the mummy. Charity had not encouraged him, but there can be no more unresponsive recipient of love than a woman who has been dead for seventeen hundred years, give or take a century.

After I had locked the door I thanked John and told him he
could now retire. He said hesitantly, "If it would not be an inconvenience, madam—could I sit with you and the professor for a while?"

"Certainly, John; you know you are always welcome. But I thought you were occupied with Leviticus."

"Numbers, madam; I had got as far as Numbers. I don't think, madam, I will ever get past Numbers."

"Don't lose heart; you can succeed at anything if you try." To be honest, my encouragement was a trifle abstracted. John's romantic and religious problems had begun to bore me, and I had more pressing matters on my mind.

As we passed Ramses' door I saw the too-familiar slit of light beneath it. I was surprised he had not popped his head out to ask what we were doing, for he was usually as curious as a magpie. I tapped on the door. "Lights out, Ramses. It is past your bedtime."

"I am working on somet'ing, Mama. May I have a half-hour's grace, please?"

"What are you working on?"

There was a pause. "The Coptic manuscript, Mama," he said at last.

"You will ruin your eyes studying that faded script by lamplight. Oh, very well; half an hour, no more."

"T'ank you, Mama. Good night, Mama. Good night, John."

"Good night, Master Ramses."

"I wonder how he knew you were with me," I said musingly.

When we returned to the parlor Emerson was gathering his scattered papers. "What a mess," he grumbled. "Give me a hand, will you, John?"

John hastened to oblige. The papers having been restored to the table, he asked eagerly, "Is there anything I can do for you, sir?"

"No, thank you; I will have to sort them myself. Go back to your Bible, John—and much good may it do you."

John gave me a look of appeal and I said, "John wants to sit
with us awhile, Emerson. Proceed, John. Sit."

John sat. He sat on the edge of the chair, hands on his knees and eyes fixed on Emerson. It was impossible to work with that silent monument present; I was not surprised when after a time Emerson put down his pen and commented, "You appear to be at loose ends, John. You have about you a certain air of indecision. Is something troubling you?"

I knew John would not confide in him. The poor lad had been subjected to many derisive comments on the subject of religion, and although Emerson had been—for Emerson—fairly considerate about John's romantic yearnings, his generally sardonic look and manner was not of the sort that would inspire a young lover to pour out the (usually insipid) sentiments that fill his heart. Emerson's attachment to me is romantic, but it is never insipid.