“Who are you?” asked Mary in a voice as low as his. At the center of the room, Margaret Trelawny was still reading from the scroll. The scarab on the necklace she wore was now glowing red.
“My name is Isaac Mandelbaum,” he said. “You have met my mother, the housekeeper for Professor Moriarty. She asked me to help you, to get you out before the—what is the word—the engagement. The combat. Soon, I hope, the Metropolitan Police will be here. They shall arrest Moriarty and his men for breaking and entering into the British Museum, with the intent to steal the artifacts from this exhibit. And then, once he is in custody, he will be brought up on other charges. He has been careful, very careful, but now we have evidence of his crimes—the opium dens, the houses of prostitution, the smuggling of goods and people.”
“What is we?” asked Diana skeptically. “Who are you working for, anyway?”
“That I cannot tell you,” he said. “But I am loyal to your British government, and I have been instructed, if possible, to save Mr. Holmes.” He drew a pistol from behind his back—it must have been in his belt. It was the same pistol that had been pointed at them only an hour ago, but now, apparently, he was a friend. Mary was not sure whether to trust him.
“Did Mycroft Holmes send you?” she asked. Who else in the British government knew about Moriarty and his criminal enterprises? It must be Mycroft—despite his apparent indifference in the Diogenes Club, he must be trying to save his brother. But Isaac Mandelbaum did not answer. He merely crouched in the shadows, pistol drawn, waiting. For what? He had said that help was on the way.…
Suddenly, Margaret Trelawny’s recitation ceased. Mary looked at the central platform. Margaret was no longer holding the scroll. She was standing still, turned toward Mrs. Raymond, who had her hands raised. Alice was leaning over, rubbing the hand Mrs. Raymond had been holding, and looking down at Mr. Holmes.
As Mary watched, the air around Mrs. Raymond shimmered. It looked as though she were surrounded by multicolored waves. Were these the energic waves Ayesha had described? They swirled around her, rising and falling, shifting with her motions. She looked like a conductor before an orchestra, but her orchestra was the air itself. Mary felt a cold wind rise and begin to blow around the room.
Around the platform, the seven men stood at the seven pillars. The wind whipped Mr. Morris’s long hair about his head.
“It’s time for the sacrifice!” shouted Moriarty, with a sort of triumphant glee in his voice. “This will be the last of you, Sherlock Holmes! You will be drained of your life, your essence, like a battery. This time there will be no resurrecting you from the waters of Reichenbach Falls!”
They were going to sacrifice Mr. Holmes in this insane ritual! For what purpose? Mary had no idea, but she knew that she had to save him.
“Help me!” she said to Justine. “I have to get to Sherlock!”
“Mary, what are you going to do?” asked Justine. She had to raise her voice to be heard above the wind.
“I don’t know!” said Mary. “I’ll think of something!” She had no plan—she always had a plan, but now she simply did not know what to do. She just knew that she had to get Sherlock Holmes off that platform.
Her skirt was whipping in the wind, which was rising and getting stronger. Justine nodded and stood up beside her. Together, somehow, they would get to Mr. Holmes. Could they reach him in time?
“No!” shouted Isaac Mandelbaum, reaching toward her. “You must not. You will simply endanger yourself.”
Suddenly, Mary was blinded by a bright flash of light. It had come from the sarcophagus itself. She peered at it, blinking. Were those multicolored swirls the energic waves, or the aftereffect of that flash on her irises? She rubbed her eyes to try and clear them.
Something was rising from the sarcophagus, some form. She could see it, a shadow against the brightness. It stepped out of the sarcophagus and onto the platform. What in the world was happening? Mary rubbed her eyes again. They were tearing up from the light, and stung as though she had gotten some caustic substance into them. She blinked and tried to see as best she could. The shadow appeared to be the figure of a woman, wrapped like a mummy, as though Queen Tera had risen and stepped out of her tomb. But that was impossible—this must be another of Mrs. Raymond’s illusions. She was being mesmerized—but it seemed so real! The mummy stood in front of the sarcophagus, next to Margaret Trelawny, whose necklace was blazing like a red eye through the shifting waves. Mrs. Raymond was still conducting her orchestra of lights. Mary could see that the waves were rising in accordance with her gestures.
“Justine!” She clutched Justine’s arm. “Can you see—tell me what you see!”
“I do not know,” Justine shouted back, almost into her ear. “Is that—”
“It’s the mummy!” Diana’s voice was almost a shriek. So Diana could see it as well! Either it was not an illusion, or they were all being deluded at the same time.
“What are you doing? What’s happening?” shouted Moriarty. “This isn’t—”
“Priestess of Isis, Queen of Egypt, accept our sacrifice,” shouted Margaret.
The mummy turned and held out its left hand, which appeared to be unwrapped. Curiously, it seemed to have seven fingers. From those seven fingers came seven beams of light that spread to the seven lamps.
“Helen! Don’t do this!” That was the man they had called Dr. Raymond. The flame in his lamp sprang up, up, until it was as tall as the pillar. The light from the mummy augmented the flame, raising it higher and higher, like a giant candle. The flame began to dance in the wind that was still whipping around the room. And then it turned, bent down, and wrapped itself around Dr. Raymond. He threw back his head and screamed.
All of the flames were rising, all of them were dancing, all of them were reaching for and enveloping the men who stood behind the pillars. And now they were aflame! Moriarty and Moran, Godalming and Seward, Morris and Harker—all screaming and writhing as though they were on fire. They were human torches, surrounded by a blazing white light that shot multicolored specks, like a Catherine wheel. Mary heard a scream—was it Alice? It sounded like Alice. But the flames were nowhere near her, thank goodness. Around the platform, the seven men were being consumed by flames.
“Mój Boże!” shouted Isaac Mandelbaum. “What is happening?”
Mary could barely hear him over the sound of the wind. “Justine!” she cried. “Can we try to save them? How can we save them?” Those men might be her enemies, but they were dying in agony. She must do something.
“I do not know,” Justine shouted back. What could they do? The wind was swirling all around them. Now it carried the smoke of the burning men, a white smoke like fog, with multicolored glints in it. She could still hear their screams. This was terrible! It was the most terrible thing she had ever experienced. It was worse than the night in the warehouse when Adam Frankenstein had gone up in flames, because she had not been able to see him burn. But these men were dying right before her eyes. Through the smoke, she could see clothes disintegrating, flesh charring and melting. For a moment, she hid her eyes, sickened at the sight.
But she must not turn away. Perhaps she could not save those men, but Sherlock and Alice were still in there, in the noise and smoke. She must try to save her friends. She turned and grabbed Isaac Mandelbaum’s revolver. He stared at her, too stunned to resist.
“No,” shouted Justine. “You cannot go in there. It is too dangerous. I will go.”
Before Mary could protest, Justine had sprung up and rushed into the swirling fog. It seemed to be part smoke, part flames, part multicolored lights the colors of sunrise: blue and yellow and pink. It rose and fell around the platform, where she could still see the figure of the mummy—but now it too was bathed in a bright white light, with flames dancing around it. Those flames gave off no heat, only light, the brightest light she had ever seen, so that she had to cover her eyes again from the sheer pain of it. She squinted between her fingers to see Justine running toward the
platform.
Suddenly, as though someone had turned down a Bunsen burner, the flames burned down, and there was only a low fog, rising and falling like waves, along the floor. On the platform stood Margaret Trelawny and Mrs. Raymond. Between them stood the mummy. But as Mary watched, its wrappings fell off, turned to dust, and blew away in the wind. The wind itself fell, so that for the first time since the waves of light had appeared, it was quiet.
Where the mummy had been stood a woman. She was entirely naked. Her skin shone like burnished copper in the light of the seven lamps, which now burned only with low, flickering flames. She was entirely hairless, even on her head. Mary was so astonished at the sight of her that for a moment she forgot entirely where she was or what she was doing. She just stared at this apparition—was this the mummy, somehow brought back to life? It must be an illusion. They must all simply be witnessing the same illusion. But could an illusion have killed all those men?
“Queen Tera,” said Isaac next to her. “They have resurrected Queen Tera from the dead. This is not what Moriarty planned.”
His statement brought her back to herself. What was happening now? Justine had almost made it to the platform. Where was Alice? Ah, there—crouched by Mr. Holmes! And he was sitting up, speaking with her. Thank goodness, at least he was no longer unconscious. If Justine could reach them…
The woman Isaac had called Queen Tera raised her left hand. Lightning sprang from it, as white as the light of the lamps, hitting Justine in the chest. The Giantess crumpled to the ground. Mary could see Alice raising her hand to her mouth, stifling another scream. Holmes reached toward her weakly, as though to comfort her. Mary almost screamed herself. What had happened to Justine?
As casually as though nothing had happened, Queen Tera turned to Margaret Trelawny and Helen Raymond. Margaret Trelawny unclasped the scarab necklace from her neck, knelt before Queen Tera, and held the necklace out to the naked woman. “Hail, Priestess of Isis, once Queen of Egypt, soon to be Queen of England. Your loyal subject greets you.”
Queen Tera took the scarab necklace and clasped it around her own neck, where it glowed briefly for a moment, then dimmed to a dull red hue. She said something that Mary could not understand. Was it in the same language Margaret had been reading from the scroll? Then she turned to Mrs. Raymond.
“Are you a loyal subject to me also, child of this new age?” Her voice was hoarse, like a rusted pulley. It sounded as though she had not used it in two thousand years. She spoke with a heavy accent. But how was she speaking English at all? Was she indeed Queen Tera? Or was this some sort of charlatan’s trick? Those men—they had truly burned in the flames. And Justine was truly lying on the floor. Mary rose, prepared to run forward to where she was lying.
Isaac grabbed her wrist. “No. She will kill you, too. Can you not see that she has powers beyond what Moriarty dreamed of? You will not help your friends by dying yourself.”
Mary wrenched her wrist from his grasp and crouched down again. He was right, she had to admit he was right, but she could not just stay here, doing nothing! Her wrist ached where he had grabbed it.
“I am, my queen,” said Mrs. Raymond, replying to Queen Tera. Instead of kneeling as Margaret had, she bowed low for a moment. “I have waited all my life for a glimpse of the powers you wield, and to avenge myself upon my father, who gave me just so much, and no more, of them.”
“Do not call me Queen until I sit upon the throne of your British Empire, heir to the Roman Empire of old. Call me Tera. Your language falls strangely on my tongue—it is an ugly language, without the mellifluous tones of Egyptian or Greek. So did the Roman tongue sound to my ears, when Octavian’s soldiers came.”
She looked around at the exhibition hall. “Shall we remain here, Margaret? Rise, and let us plan for the conquest of the known world.”
“No, Tera.” Margaret stood up again. “My house by the ocean is prepared for us, and we have a plan—Helen and I have it all figured out. If only Moriarty could have known what we were going to pull off! I would have liked to see his face when he realized—well, maybe he did, in those final moments. We’re putting his plan in motion, but for an entirely different purpose. It will be England not for Englishmen, but for us and whoever decides to join us—your loyal followers, my Queen. Within a week you will sit upon the throne in Buckingham Palace.”
Mrs. Raymond had once again grabbed Alice’s hand. She paid no attention to Sherlock Holmes. Although he was sitting, he still seemed unsteady, as though the effect of whatever drug he had been under had not yet worn off. “Come, Lydia. Meet your future Queen. She will rule this country better than it has ever been ruled, make it stronger than it has ever been. It will become the greatest empire the world has ever known.”
“And what of them?” Queen Tera was looking at Mary and Diana.
“They are irrelevant,” said Margaret. “I suggest you burn them up in your fire, leaving their ashes to scatter through these halls, as the ashes of Moriarty and his followers are doing even now.”
“No!” cried Alice. “You can’t do that! Not to Mary!”
At that, Holmes sprang up. He no longer seemed so unsteady on his long spider’s legs. It looked as though he was going to leap at Queen Tera! No, he must not—the Egyptian Queen would strike him down, just as she had Justine.
Mary lifted Isaac Mandelbaum’s revolver and pointed it at the platform. It was a .32, not her usual small but very effective .22 caliber revolver. She would have to aim carefully, adjusting for its harder kickback. She had Queen Tera in her sights. She did not want to injure either Alice or Sherlock Holmes. Carefully, carefully, she squeezed the trigger.
Bang! Bang! What was that? She had not yet fired. No, it was the doors of the exhibition hall, which had burst open and hit the walls behind them. Pouring through the doorway were the Baker Street boys, led by a tall, wild-haired boy who was yelling, “Charlie! Dennys! Get Mr. Holmes. Some of you fellows go to Diana. She’ll tell you what to do. The rest of you, with me!”
Here was the cavalry, come to save them in the shape of a group of ragged street urchins and ragamuffins! For a moment, Mary blessed all the poor, dirty boys of London. Then she thought, Queen Tera is going to kill them all. She must take out the Egyptian Queen. She aimed again—but now there were Baker Street boys in the way. She could no longer get a clear shot.
“It’s Wiggins!” said Diana. “Well, he took his bloody time. Wiggins, get Holmes and Alice, and don’t forget Justine! She’s on the floor—get her out of here! And then we’re going to tear that naked mummy limb from limb.”
On the platform, Queen Tera looked with astonishment at the stream of dirty boys rapidly spreading across the floor of the exhibition room. Holmes sprang toward her, but she waved her hand in his direction and he was hurled back, as though by a wave that had struck him in the chest. Mary could see Alice kneeling down beside him. Then, Queen Tera raised her hands. Multicolored waves rose around her. They swirled as though a wind were blowing them about. Mary heard a roar like the waves of the ocean. A rising tide of light surged around the platform, sparkling and flaring with all the colors of the rainbow, like small firecrackers going off.
Startled, the Baker Street boys fell back, staring at one another and then at Wiggins, wondering what to do. Was Tera going to blast them all?
If Mary could not shoot, then she must join the melee. If she and Isaac Mandelbaum both rushed Queen Tera, perhaps the mummy would only be able to take out one of them at a time and the other could get through? Although Mary remembered lightning coming out of her seven fingers at once… Nevertheless, they had to do something.
“Come on,” she said, but suddenly realized that Isaac Mandelbaum was not there. Only Diana sat beside her. The coward had run away! Perhaps he was not working with Mycroft after all? Perhaps he had simply been one of Moriarty’s henchmen, and had left to betray them to his other confederates.
“I’m with you!” said Diana. She had Isaac’s knife in her hand. “Let’s go get
that Egyptian bitch!”
But the wind had grown so high and loud that Mary felt as though she were in the middle of a tornado. When she rose, it almost knocked her down again. Even if it were a good idea for her and Diana to rush the platform, they could not have.
“Bloody hell!” shouted Diana. Her hair was whipping in the wind like a red halo around her head.
Mary grabbed Diana’s hand. “Hold on!” she said. “Just hold on to me.”
Suddenly, the sound of rushing waves ceased. The waves of light that had surrounded the platform died down. Lower and lower the waves fell, finally swirling around the floor like water going into a drain, until they disappeared entirely. The exhibition room looked exactly as it had when Mary first entered it, except that now it was filled with Baker Street boys, looking around the room, puzzled.
Justine was still lying on the floor, in front of the platform with Queen Tera’s sarcophagus on it. Wiggins was standing beside her. Queen Tera, Mrs. Raymond, Margaret Trelawny, Mr. Holmes, and Alice were all gone.
There was a noise outside the door. In burst Isaac Mandelbaum, followed by a group of men in the blue uniform of the Metropolitan Police. “I have brought help!” he said. He looked around the room, now filled with boys. “What has happened here?”
“That was exactly what I was wondering,” said the man who walked in behind them. He had bright red hair and a frown that seemed to have permanently creased his forehead. “What are you doing here, Wiggins? And where is Mr. Holmes?” Then he saw Mary and Diana. “Oh, it’s you again. As soon as I got out of bed this morning, I knew it was going to be a bad day. Why don’t you explain to me what sort of mischief you’ve been up to this time?”
That was the very last thing Mary wanted to do. She was tired and heartsick. Once again, they had lost Alice and Sherlock, and Justine was—wounded? Dead? She braced herself for the interrogation she knew was coming, and said, “Good morning, Inspector Lestrade.”
MARY: He hates me. He absolutely hates me.
The Sinister Mystery of the Mesmerizing Girl Page 22