Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (24 page)

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 colour and gives them a sickly greyish-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 there were four strong, alert men hidden 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 humour 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, supersedes 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 there; 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 colour 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 spinning round 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 paralysed 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 then, 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 centre 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.

W
HEN
I reached Walter’s side I found Emerson there before me. Where he 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 vapours. 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-calibre bullets.’

Lucas let out his breath. Some of the colour 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?’