The Mummy or Ramses the Damned (9 page)

“Your opinion, Elliott, of the whole mystery,” Julie said. “Is this a nineteenth-dynasty coffin? How did it come to be fashioned in Roman times? You know, Father told me once, you knew more about Egyptology than all the men at the museum.”

He laughed softly to himself. She glanced about nervously to make sure Hancock was nowhere near. Thank God, he was in the thick of his own little crowd, explaining something about those scrolls, no doubt, and the row of exquisite jars along the wall beneath the mirror.

“What do you think?” Julie prodded again. Had seriousness ever been so seductive?

“Can’t possibly be Ramses the Great, my dear,” he said. “But then you know that.” He studied the painted lid of the coffin again, and once more the body nestled in its dusty swathing. “An excellent job, I must say that. Not many chemicals were used; no smell of bitumen whatsoever.”

“There is no bitumen,” Samir said suddenly. He had been standing on Elliott’s left and Elliott had not even seen him.

“And what do you make of that?” Elliott asked.

“The King has given us his own explanation,” Samir said. “Or so Lawrence told me. Ramses had himself wrapped with all due ceremony and prayers; but he was not embalmed. He was never taken from the cell where he wrote his story.”

“What an amazing idea!” Elliott said. “And have you read
these inscriptions yourself?” He pointed to the Latin as he translated: “ ‘Let not the sun shine on my remains; for in darkness I sleep; beyond all suffering; beyond all knowledge.…’ Now that is hardly an Egyptian sentiment. I think you’ll agree.”

Samir’s face darkened as he looked at the tiny letters. “There are curses and warnings everywhere. I was a curious man until we opened this strange tomb.”

“And now you’re frightened?” Not a good thing for one man to say to another. But it was true. And Julie was merely enthralled.

“Elliott, I want you to read Father’s notes,” she said, “before the museum gathers up everything and locks it in a vault. The man doesn’t merely claim to be Ramses. There’s a good deal more.”

“You’re not referring to the nonsense in the papers,” he asked her. “About his being immortal, and loving Cleopatra.”

Strange the way she looked at him. “Father translated some of it,” she repeated. She glanced to the side. “I have the notebook. It’s on his desk. Samir will agree with me, I think. You’ll find it interesting.”

But Samir was being dragged away by Hancock and some other fellow with a brittle smile. And Lady Treadwell had accosted Julie before she could go on. Wasn’t Julie afraid of the curse? Elliott felt her hand slip away from his. Old Winslow Baker wanted to talk to Elliott right now. No, go away. A tall woman with withered cheeks and long white hands stood before the coffin and demanded to know if the whole thing might be a practical joke.

“Certainly not!” said Baker. “Lawrence always dug up the real thing, I’d stake my life on it.”

Elliott smiled. “Once the museum has these wrappings off,” he said, “they’ll be able to date the remains successfully. There will be internal evidence of age, of course.”

“Lord Rutherford, I didn’t recognize you,” said the woman.

Good Lord, was he supposed to recognize her? Someone had stepped in front of her; everyone wanted to see this thing. And he ought to move, but he didn’t want to.

“I can’t bear to think of their cutting him open,” Julie said half in a whisper. “This is the first time I’ve seen him,” she said. “I didn’t dare to open the case on my own.”

“Come along, darling, there’s an old friend I want you to
meet,” Alex said suddenly. “Father, there you are! Do get off your feet! Do you want me to help you to a chair?”

“I can manage, Alex, go on,” Elliott replied. The fact was, he was used to the pain. It was like tiny knives in his joints; and tonight he could feel it even in his fingers. But he could forget about it, entirely, now and then.

And now he was alone with Ramses the Damned, with a lot of backs and shoulders turned to him. How splendid.

He narrowed his eyes as he drew very close to the mummy’s face. Amazingly well formed; not desiccated at all. And certainly not the face of an old man, such as Ramses would have been at the end of a sixty-year reign.

The mouth was a young man’s mouth, or at least that of a man in his prime. And the nose was slender, but not emaciated—what Englishmen call aristocratic. The ridges of the brows were prominent and the eyes themselves could not have been small. Probably a handsome man. In fact, there seemed little doubt of it.

Someone said crossly that the thing ought to be in the museum. Another that it was perfectly gruesome. And to think, these had been Lawrence’s friends? Hancock was examining the gold coins on display in their velvet-lined case. Samir was beside him.

In fact, Hancock was making a fuss about something, wasn’t he? Elliott knew that officious tone.

“There were five, only five? You’re sure of it?” And he was speaking so loudly one would have thought Samir was deaf, not merely Egyptian.

“Quite sure. I told you,” Samir said with a touch of irritation. “I cataloged the entire contents of the chamber myself.”

Quite unmistakably, Hancock shifted his gaze to someone across the room. Elliott saw it was Henry Stratford, looking quite splendid in his dove-grey wool, with a black silk tie at his throat. Laughing and talking nervously, too, it seemed, with Alex and Julie and that crowd of young people whom Henry secretly loathed and resented.

Handsome as ever, Elliott thought. Handsome as when he was a boy of twenty, and that narrow elegant face could flash from a beguiling vulnerability to a chilling viciousness.

But why was Hancock staring at him? And what was he whispering now in Samir’s ear? Samir looked at Hancock for a long
moment, then gave a languid little shrug, his eyes moving slowly over Henry also.

How Samir must loathe all this, Elliott thought. How he must loathe that uncomfortable Western suit; he wants his
gellebiyya
of watered silk, and his slippers, and he should have them. What barbarians we must seem.

Elliott moved to the far corner and slipped into Lawrence’s leather chair, easing it back against the wall. The crowd opened and closed at random, revealing Henry again moving away from the others, and glancing uncomfortably to right and left. Very subtle, not like a stage villain, but he’s up to something, isn’t he?

Henry slowly passed the marble table, his hand hovering as if he meant to touch the ancient scrolls. The crowd closed again, but Elliott merely waited. The little knot of persons in front of him shifted finally, and there was Henry, yards away, peering at a necklace on a little glass shelf, one of those many relics which Lawrence had brought home years ago.

Did anyone see Henry pick up the necklace and look at it lovingly as if he were an antiquarian? Did anyone see him slip it into his pocket and walk away, face blank, mouth rigid?

Bastard.

Elliott only smiled. He took a sip of the chilled white wine, and wished it were sherry. He wished he had not seen the little theft. He wished he had not seen Henry.

His own secret memories of Henry had never lost their painful edge, perhaps because he had never confessed what had happened to anyone. Not even to Edith, though he had told her many other sordid things about himself when wine and philosophy had made it seem imperative that he do so; and not to the Roman Catholic priests to whom he occasionally went to speak of heaven and hell in passionate ways no one else would tolerate.

He always told himself that if he did not relive those dark times, then he would forget them. But they were horridly vivid even now, some ten years after.

He had loved Henry Stratford once. And Henry Stratford was the only lover Elliott had ever had who tried to blackmail him.

Of course it had been an utter failure. Elliott had laughed in Henry’s face. He’d called his bluff. “Shall I tell your father all about it? Or shall I tell your uncle Lawrence first? He’s going to be furious with me … for perhaps five minutes. But you, his favourite nephew, he will despise till the day you die because I
shall tell him all of it, you see, down to the sum of money you’re demanding. What was it? Five hundred pounds? You’ve made yourself a wretch for that, imagine.”

How sullen and hurt Henry had been; how utterly confounded.

It should have been a triumph; but nothing took the sting from the overall humiliation. Henry at twenty-two—a viper with an angel’s face, turning on Elliott in their Paris hotel as if he were a common boy out of the gutter.

And then there had been the little thefts. An hour after Henry had left, Elliott had discovered that his cigarette case, his money clip and all his cash were missing. His dressing gown was gone; his cuff links. Other items he could no longer remember.

He could never bring himself to mention the whole disaster. But he would have liked to needle Henry now, to slip up beside him and ask about the necklace that had just found its way into his pocket. Would Henry put it with the gold cigarette case, and the fine engraved money clip, and the diamond cuff links? Or lay it off on the same pawnbroker?

It was all too sad really. Henry had been a gifted young man; and it had all gone wrong, despite education and blood and countless opportunities. He’d started to gamble when he was no more than a boy; his drinking had become a disease by the time he was twenty-five; and now at thirty-two he had a perpetually sinister air that deepened his good looks and made him curiously repulsive in spite of them. And who suffered for it? Randolph, of course, who believed against all evidence that Henry’s descent was his father’s failure.

Let him go to hell, Elliott thought. Maybe he’d sought some glimmer with Henry of the flame he’d known with Lawrence, and it was all his own fault—seeing the uncle in the nephew. But no, it had started as an honest thing in its own right. And Henry Stratford had pursued him, after all. Yes, to hell with Henry.

It was the mummy Elliott had come to see. And the crowd had backed off a little again. He caught a fresh glass of wine from a passing tray, climbed to his feet, ignoring the outrageous stab of pain in his left hip, and made his way back to the solemn figure in the coffin.

He looked at the face again, the grim set of the mouth with its firm chin. A man in his prime all right. And there was hair cleaving to the well-shaped skull beneath the swollen bandages.

He lifted his glass in salute.

“Ramses,” he whispered, drawing closer. And then speaking in Latin, he said, “Welcome to London. Do you know where London is?” He laughed softly at himself speaking Latin to this thing. Then he quoted a few sentences from Caesar’s account of his conquest of Britain. “That’s where you are, great King,” he said. He made a feeble attempt to switch to Greek, but it was simply too hard for him. In Latin, he said: “I hope you like the damn place better than I do.”

There was a faint rustling sound suddenly. Where had it come from? How odd to hear it so distinctly when the roar of conversation all around him was such a persistent nuisance. But it sounded as if it had come from the coffin itself, right in front of him.

He scanned the face again. Then the arms and hands, which appeared to be snagged in the rotted linen, as if they might fall loose at any moment. In fact, there was a distinct tear in the dark, dirty cloth, exposing a bit of the undergarment of the body right where the wrists were crossed. Not good. The thing was deteriorating right here before his eyes. Or there were tiny parasites at work. Must be stopped immediately.

He looked down at the mummy’s feet. This was alarming. A tiny pile of dust accumulating even as he watched, falling, it seemed, from the twisted right hand, on which the wrappings had been badly broken.

“Good Lord, Julie must send this over to the museum immediately,” he whispered. And then he heard that sound again. Rustling? No, it was fainter. Yes, the thing must be properly taken care of. God only knew what the London damp was doing to it. But surely Samir knew this. And so did Hancock.

In Latin, he spoke to the mummy again. “I don’t like the damp either, great King. It gives me pain. And that’s why I’m going home now, to leave you to your worshippers.”

He turned away, leaning heavily on his cane, to ease the ache in his hip. He glanced back only once. And the thing looked so robust. It was as if the Egyptian heat had not dried it out whatsoever.

Daisy looked at the tiny necklace as Henry clasped it at the back of her neck. Her dressing room was packed with flowers, bottles of red wine, champagne cooling in ice, and other offerings, but none from a man as handsome as Henry Stratford.

“Looks funny to me,” she said, cocking her head to one side. Thin gold chain and a little trinket with paint on it, or that’s what it looked like. “Wherever did you get it?”

“It’s worth more than that trash you took off,” Henry said, smiling. His speech was thick. He was drunk again. And that meant he would be mean, or very, very sweet. “Now come on, ducky, we’re going to Flint’s. I feel uncommonly lucky, and there’s a hundred pounds burning a hole in my pocket. Get a move on.”

“And you mean to say that loony cousin of yours is all alone in that house now with that bloomin’ mummy case wide open right there in the parlour?”

“Who the hell cares?” He snatched up the white fox wrap he’d bought for her and put it over her shoulders, and pulled her out of the dressing room and towards the stage door.

Flint’s was packed when they got there. She hated the smoke, and the sour smell of drink; but it was always fun to be with him here when he had money and he was excited; and he kissed her now on the cheek as he led her towards the roulette wheel.

“You know the rules. You stand on my left, and only on my left. That’s always been lucky.”

She nodded. Look at all the fine gentlemen in this room; and the women just loaded with jewels. And she with this silly thing around her neck. It made her anxious.

Julie jumped; what was that sound? She found herself vaguely embarrassed as she stood alone in the shadowy library.

There was no one else here, but she could have sworn she heard another person. Not a step, no. Just all the tiny little sounds of another in the room very near to her.