The Book of the Dead (7 page)

“Well. This is nice,” he said.

The Princess did not reply.

His sandwich finished, Dave dusted the crumbs from his hands.

“I’ll…” he stopped. What should he do with the tea and the sandwich he’d offered her? Should he clear it up or leave it? It wasn’t like she was really going to eat it, was it – but on the other hand, was it some kind of insult if he took it away? He resolved to consult the catalogue as soon as his shift was finished. The book would tell him what to do. In the meantime, he decided to err on the side of practicality and he collected up the sandwich as best he could.

“My boss, you know,” he said by way of apology, gathering up his thermos and the carrier bag.

“Well. I’ll come by again later.” He scrunched the bag into his fist and tucked the thermos under his arm – and he was just about to reactivate the alarm when he heard something…

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump.

Dave frowned, listening. Whatever it was, it was coming from inside the room – and had most certainly not been there the night before. He listened a moment longer, then unclipped the radio from his belt and pressed a yellow button on the side of it.

“Charlie? Make a note to get Maintenance over to the Petrie when they get in, would you? The air-con’s on the blink again.”

He keyed in the code for the alarm, and closed the door behind him.

The days and nights passed. The former, Dave spent either at home, reading and rereading the exhibition catalogue until its pages were loose and dog-eared – or (much to the amusement of his colleagues) in the Egyptian department, where the librarian had taken a bemused but supportive interest in his sudden enthusiasm and had set aside a pile of books for him to read. The nights he increasingly spent in the Petrie Room – hurrying the rest of his round so that he could sit beside her. Sometimes he would take the newspaper, reading aloud the stories he thought she might like. Sometimes he took a book from the archives – reasoning that it hadn’t left the building – and read her pages from that… although then he worried that it might make her homesick, so he stopped. Occasionally, they did the crossword as he sat on the carpet beside her; he found the cryptic a bit of a struggle, but she seemed to prefer it so he soldiered on.

The noise was still there – that quiet, insistent thudding sound he had heard weeks before – and although Maintenance had checked the fans, the ducts and the vents for the air conditioning system as far away as the third floor, they could find no fault with it. But yes, they admitted, there
was
a noise, and it was definitely coming from something in the Petrie Room. As soon as the exhibition left and the space was broken down again, they would put in for a work order to take the floor up; hopefully that would solve the problem.

This conversation had upset Dave. It had upset him so much that he had excused himself, hurrying along the corridors and up the grand staircase to the second floor where – watched over by the martyrdom of Thomas à Becket – he had sat on a bench and rocked back and forth, sobbing into his palm. Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to him that one day, one day soon, the exhibition would leave. That
she
would leave. He knew she didn’t want to go: he could feel it. After all the time they had spent together, he knew what she wanted better than anyone else. Better, even, than she did. He had tried so hard to understand her; to be the kind of man she deserved. He had taken to oiling his hair like the books said; to anointing himself with cedar and juniper oils, bought specially from a shop in Covent Garden and wrapped by the smiling assistant in tissue paper the colour of an Egyptian sky. He had assumed they were a gift – for a relative, a colleague or a friend, and he had let him. The oil had given him a rash which burned beneath his shirt and which was starting to run to sores – but she needn’t know that. All she need know was that he loved her. She was a princess. Love was what she deserved.

On the final day of the exhibition, he dragged himself to the museum several hours before his shift began. He didn’t want to miss a moment with her; didn’t want to arrive and find her boxed and labelled and ready to be stolen away from him. Besides, his sleep had been no better. He’d dreamt of sitting in a large room with a high ceiling and grey-painted wood panelling on the walls. There were tables arranged in rows, laid for a meal, and tall, glass doors opening onto a terrace. Beyond lay a vast glass pyramid, its sides glinting in the sunlight.

She stood on the balcony, her back to him; silhouetted against the shining glass.

“It’s a dream,” she had said – and her voice was just as he had come to imagine it.

“How do you know?” he had asked, knowing all the while that she was right.

“This is the Louvre. Not your museum at all.” She pointed to the pyramid ahead of her and there was a rustle of fabric, paper-dry. “I liked it here. But the river, it carries me always on, and I am weary.” There was a sadness in her voice that made his throat tighten.

“The Louvre?” He stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “That’s the French one, isn’t it?” Something nagged at the back of his sleeping mind. “How can I be dreaming it? I’ve not been there.”

“But I have…” And as she spoke, she turned to face him – and he saw a sudden flash of her face in the light: blackened with age, her soft lips shrivelled and parched and peeling away from where her teeth should have been. Her skin was cracked and harder than bone, and there were dark hollows where once there had been warm cheeks. Empty eye sockets met his gaze and held it.

He woke with a scream, his bedsheets clammy and stuck to his skin.

It was only a dream. His, or hers…

The last of the visitors had gone. The staff were, one by one, filtering into the Petrie Room for the Director’s traditional speech. At the end of every visiting exhibition, he would thank them – as though there wasn’t still a museum to run, paperwork to be done, artefacts to be stored or retrieved or cleaned…

Dave hung back, his eyes locked onto the glass case on the dais.

There was a polite round of applause as the Director finished speaking. Dave stood in the shadows beside the display board, dwarfed by the larger-than-life photo of the Princess’s golden mask. He waited, listening to the sound of trolleys being wheeled down the hallway.

They were coming.

They were coming to take her.

They were coming to take her and she didn’t want to go.

He knew her. He knew she didn’t want to go.

She wanted to stay. To stay here. To stay with him.

She loved him.

She couldn’t say it, but she loved him. He could feel it. She loved him, and he loved her.

With a burst of speed that would have surprised anyone who knew him, he rushed towards the dais, throwing himself at the wooden platform as the doors swung open. There was the sound of laughter – and then of someone calling his name. There was a hand on his shoulder, and there was a shout. Footsteps somewhere behind him. So many footsteps, muffled by the thick, soft carpet, but then only the
thump-thump, thump-thump
of a heartbeat filling his ears as the world went black.

In the galleries of New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, two curators stood in front of a newly-installed exhibit. One of them was sweating slightly, the other pulling on a pair of nitrile conservation gloves.

“I swear it wasn’t like that when we set it up,” said the sweatier of the two, running a hand back through his hair.

His companion simply frowned and dropped into a crouch alongside the case, peering through the glass to get a better look.

“Better start praying it’s London’s fault and not ours, then. Open it up.”

The Princess lay in the stillness of her climate-controlled coffin, just as she had in London, in Paris and Berlin, in Cairo and in Rome. But what no-one could explain was how – despite the care, despite the precautions and the expertise of all involved – the cat-headed canopic jar containing her heart had cracked clean across in the night, spilling dry grey dust onto the black velvet of its plinth.

May first came, and it was still snowing. Marjorie Olenthiste was sick of it, of the storms that kept blanketing Arkham in identical, endless, silent white drifts; of needing to change her shoes after trudging through the resulting slush to the university library every morning; of woolen coats and hats and woolen scarves and gloves and woolen skirts and woolen underwear and wool in general. That afternoon, when the flowing white clouds again clotted into dreary leaden masses, and the first flurries began swirling down, she found herself musing on whether it was ever going to stop snowing – or if springtime would pass her by, and hot, muggy, cicada-haunted summer, and autumn with its rainstorms, until winter was the only season in her life.

Though, she mused, if it had to snow this late in the year, there couldn’t have been a better day for it. The weather had ruined her father’s meticulous plans for his annual spring garden party. Alas; even
that
was cold comfort – as it were. Professor Olenthiste would never disappoint his guests, especially when they were comprised of Arkham’s academic elite. More snow simply meant that instead of ambling through the wisteria trellises, swatting at early mosquitoes, Marjorie was stuck inside in a dungeon of dark wood and cigar-smoke, sipping a hot toddy and wishing she could get away from her father. The ticking of the various clocks maddened her, a metronome letting her know precisely how often she was contemplating escaping to her room so she could do some work on her proposal for an in-library display of apotropaic hippopotamus miniatures.

But work never excused Marjorie’s absence at a social engagement, not to Professor Olenthiste. Therefore, she was about to claim her tried-and-true standby of “a headache” when Harriet Quildring, the old battle-axe her father was trying to butter up, said:

“I am indeed looking to sell some of my late husband’s collection, Thomas – but nothing that would interest
you
, I’m sure. I adored Geoffrey’s taste in Tiffany glass and plan to keep the lot. On the other hand, his collection of mummies, especially the animals… they’re just too ghastly for me to enjoy. I’m hoping to find a buyer for them soon.”

To Marjorie’s great, if childish, pleasure, her father’s hopeful expression soured, though his face was still rendered softly beatific in the light of the Favrille and floral lamps he’d spent many years acquiring. He was clearly searching for the right way to push his enquiry further, but before he could say a word Marjorie swooped in like a hawk to change the subject from Art Nouveau interior decorating to something she cared about, and thus hadn’t expected to discuss that night:
Archaeology
. If her father wanted to keep her by his side like she was his wife and not his daughter, he could certainly deal with her speaking every once in a while.

“Did you say animal mummies, Mrs. Quildring?” Marjorie smiled cheerfully when the old woman peered at her with as much distaste as if Marjorie had asked if the widow had considered mummifying her husband instead of laying him to rest in the family mausoleum. “Forgive me, but I’m currently very interested in them – especially if they’re for sale.”

“Ah, yes.” Professor Olenthiste’s tone was indulgent. “My daughter has recently been promoted to – what is it?
Junior
Acquisitions Librarian for the Francis Morgan Antiquities Collection at Miskatonic’s library, yes? You see, Marjorie’s set her cap for a career rather than a man; she’s got herself a
job
– and told me only yesterday she’s saving up to move out and live on her own. For someone so concerned with the ancient world she shows a distinct lack of filial piety, don’t you think?”

By the time he’d finished, Marjorie was regretting speaking up. Blushing furiously, she was all set to back down, like she always did, when Mrs. Quildring unexpectedly saved her.

“Are you done, Thomas?” Mrs. Quildring held her glass out to the now twice-defeated professor. “I seem to have finished my champagne –
do
be a dear and get me a fresh glass while Marjorie and I chat about why she’s so curious about my disgusting menagerie?”

As Professor Olenthiste stalked off, Mrs. Quildring put a rose-scented arm around Marjorie’s shoulders and led her to a quiet corner of the parlor. There, she said, they could more easily hear one other above the din. Though they settled on a divan large enough for three, when Marjorie’s father returned with Mrs. Quildring’s drink she bluntly shooed him away. Then she patted Marjorie’s tweed-covered knee.

“Now then,” she said. “Oswald was obviously an Egyptologist, which explains
his
fascination in preserved creatures. As for you? Something to do with the library, according to your father?”

“We – the library, I mean, of course – we’re seeking to expand our collection of Egyptian antiquities, and one of the things we really need right now is animal mummies.”

Marjorie fell silent, recalling just how she’d come by that information: Lingering out of sight of Dr. Ingelstadt’s office door as he spoke with Richard Warston, the other junior acquisitions librarian. Somehow, though he had fewer connections and was infinitely less of a go-getter, Warston was always informed of library needs and wants, while Marjorie was kept more or less in the dark. She’d be inclined to believe Dr. Ingelstadt was purposefully funneling all the good leads elsewhere, but she didn’t want to be paranoid about it. He had hired her, after all. Thus, Marjorie had come to the conclusion that she would just have to prove she was worthy of the kind of work they always gave Warston, and if she had to get tips by eavesdropping, then so be it.

“I see,” said Mrs. Quildring. “Well, I’d be happy to let you come by and take a look at the lot. I know Oswald had several foxes, some … weasels, or something like that, a few birds, a baboon – horrible, looks like a child – and of course, some cats. Those are the worst, in my opinion. I
adore
cats, I have several.”

“Dr. Ingelstadt mentioned specifically wanting cats.” Suddenly cold, Marjorie shivered; farthest from the fireplace, this divan was likely empty as it stood against a large window that was leaking in the chill from outside.

“Well, you’re in luck… depending on your budget, I suppose.” The older woman’s smile was sly as she sipped her champagne. “The prize of our collection is a mummified cat said to have been the personal pet of Nehesy, also called the Black Pharaoh.”

The electric lights flickered and then went out entirely. Marjorie shivered as a weird prickly sensation suddenly flowed up her spine while guests gasped at the sudden darkness; a few wits in the parlor made spooky ghost noises, o
oooOOOooooh
, and there was the tinkle of a glass breaking. But just as Professor Olenthiste was announcing he’d find someone see to the problem immediately, the lights came back on.

Squinting in the sudden brightness Marjorie rubbed at her right eye with the back of her hand. When she could see again, she found two gentlemen standing in front of the sofa where she and Mrs. Quildring still sat. One was a paunchy youth with fair, messy hair. He was smiling, displaying uneven teeth, and was listing slightly to his right. Marjorie suspected he’d had more than a tipple that night. His companion, on the other hand, was sober, well-dressed, slender, and mustached. His dark hair had been parted precisely down the middle; indeed, everything about him was precise.

“What is it, Edgar?” Mrs. Quildring’s tone was icy.

“Oh,
Auntie
, don’t be like that,” slurred the blond man. “I just want a bit of oof, you know, for cab fare home. I’m ready to go but you’re still socializing with the eggheads.”

“You will not take a cab.” She sighed and turned to Marjorie. “Young men these days don’t seem to understand that when they take a woman somewhere, they should see her home.” Marjorie, for her part, was more annoyed that just as her prize was in sight these two had come and interrupted her conversation with Mrs. Quildring. Things had been going so well. Looking everywhere but at the bickering pair, she caught the other man’s eye. He shrugged and smiled slightly, as if to say
what can you do?

“Let me see you home, then,” urged Edgar.

“All you want to do is put me to bed so you can go straight back out again with your disreputable friends.” Mrs. Quidlring seemed to notice Edgar’s associate for the first time. “Though I concede that this one looks all right, for once. Who are you, sir, that you voluntarily choose the company of my repugnant nephew on a Friday night?”

Marjorie noticed that Edgar startled a bit when he saw the man standing beside him, as if unaware of his presence until that very moment. He stammered, then seemed to come back to himself.

“This is Maestro Petar Zupan,
of
course
.” He spoke as if the name should mean something, and indeed, it did sound somewhat familiar. When Edgar went on to say, “We’re going to his show tomorrow, remember? He’s the famous stage magician who’s been impressing everyone from New York City to Atlanta this winter,” Marjorie realized she’d just read an article in the
Advertiser
about this man’s arrival in Arkham.

Zupan’s magic was said to be mesmerizing, full of tricks with light and sound and colored vapors. The piece had made a lot of hay out of the supposedly strange reactions of audiences to his show; the reporter had claimed that during Zupan’s performance in Baton Rouge a man had begun to scream and speak in tongues, resulting in his being hospitalized for a fortnight, and that in Chicago, a woman had allegedly returned home from the opening night only to decapitate her beloved Pomeranian and parade its head on a stick through her neighborhood, calling all to worship the “true god.” The stories had sounded like a load of hooey to Marjorie, and she discredited them even more upon meeting the man. A milder-seeming creature she had rarely encountered.

Zupan, as if to confirm her impression, inclined his head in a little formal bow. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Mrs. Quildring. And you, Miss…”

“Olenthiste,” supplied Marjorie. She smiled at him, she liked his faint European accent and quaint, formal manners.

“Ah, my hostess, I did not know,” he said, extending his hand. She offered him hers, but instead of shaking it he turned her wrist gently and kissed her knuckles. “You have a lovely home.”

“Quite a fellow with the fillies, isn’t he?” remarked Edgar to no one in particular, which brought a blush to Marjorie’s cheeks. She was sure Zupan had only meant to be polite.

“So in all ways your opposite,” cut in Mrs. Quildring. “Not only am I told that you are the rottenest magician ever to pull a rabbit out of a hat, you seem to enjoy driving all decent women away with your rudeness every chance you get.” She shook her head. “Stupid boy, I suppose you’ve achieved your goal. You’ve exhausted me, go get the car. But
I’m
driving home.”

Edgar, red-faced, opened and closed his mouth several times. Zupan looked appalled. Marjorie felt a little bad for him, too, even if he was a boor.

“Please,” she said, getting to her feet, desperate to smooth things over, “let me–”

“There’s nothing
you
need to do, Marjorie,” said Mrs. Quildring, tugging her back down again. “You stay here with me. Mr. Zupan – I’d appreciate you making sure my nephew describes the correct car to the valet? It’s a green Bentley 8 Litre.” She sighed as Zupan bowed once again, and the two men retreated, Edgar stony-faced and stiff-legged as they walked off, Zupan looking back at them over his shoulder. “Edgar is hopeless,” she said, shaking her head. “
Magic
! God help us all. I suppose I should be pleased he doesn’t spend
all
his time chasing girls and spending his money in those disreputable ‘speakeasies’ downtown. But card tricks? Those clinking rings? What he needs is a sensible young woman in his life to, keep him in check, reign him in…”

The older woman paused, then smiled. Marjorie suddenly felt uncomfortable.

“Do you… do you enjoy magic, Marjorie? You seem so studious and serious – are you able to get out much and socialize?”

“Well, as for your first question, I’m not sure.” Marjorie had had her fill of people attempting to set her up on dates. She didn’t have time to be frivolous, she had work – no, a
career
to keep her busy. How had they even gotten on this topic of conversation? All she wanted from the old bat was to see her cat mummies and get some price quotes to see if the library could afford them. “My job does tend to keep me busy, and I work until late most–”

“Surely not on a Saturday? Are you free?”

“Um…”

“You see, I was just thinking, I don’t particularly care for magic, but Edgar is obviously
dying
to see this charlatan perform his little tricks.”

Marjorie’s heart sank. She didn’t want to go anywhere with Edgar, he seemed like terrible company. But she couldn’t refuse without reason, not since she needed to stay in Mrs. Quildring’s good graces. She fumbled for words, but before she could get out more than an “Oh, I–” Mrs. Quildring cut her off.

“It would be so
lovely
if you two had a nice time together, wouldn’t it? Then you could come back for a nightcap, and I could show you Oswald’s collection of mummies.” Mrs. Quildring smiled. “As I said, the best of the bunch will cost whoever wants it a tidy sum – but of course, I’d be more likely to haggle with a friend of the family.”

“Want a sip?”

Edgar’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he took a few swallows of his own before surreptitiously offering Marjorie the flask.

“What is it?”

He glanced at the well-dressed theatre-goers surrounding them, and grinned. “Apple juice. It’s the eel’s hips. Hits the spot on a warm night.”

It
was
warm, she realized – the snow had all melted away, and spring had seemingly arrived overnight. Funny how she hadn’t noticed it before.

Edgar was still proffering the flask, but Marjorie declined. A drink would be nice, but then again, she wanted to be keen for Zupan’s show. The opening act, a short silent film, had been excellent if exceedingly strange, featuring women and men in black, body-hugging outfits dancing wildly to music played by an orchestra of masked demons.