by Anne Rice
Henry himself was in a silent rage. He glared at her as if he meant to strangle her with his bare hands. And she glared right back at him, thinking coldly, You killed my father. You would have killed me.
We do not know how we shall feel at such moments. We cannot know, she thought. I only know that I hate you, and I have never hated another human being in my life.
' 'That mummy case!'' Henry blurted out suddenly. He clung to the door as if he didn't dare to come into the room. "I want that mummy case opened now.''
"You are really past all patience. No one shall touch that mummy case. It contains a priceless relic, which belongs to the British Museum and must not be exposed to the air."
"What the hell do you mean saying these things!" he shouted. He was becoming hysterical.
"Be quiet," Randolph said to him. "I've heard quite enough!"
There was noise from outside, voices. Someone had come all the way up the steps and was peering through the front door.
"Henry, I won't have this confusion in my house," Julie said shortly.
The Scotland Yard man studied Henry coldly.
"Sir, if the lady does not want the premises searched . . ."
"Indeed, I do not," Julie responded. "I think quite enough of your time has been wasted. As you can see, nothing here has been disturbed."
Of course die coffee cup was lying on its side on the plate and the handkerchief was on the floor, but she stood her ground coldly, eyes moving from Henry to the officer. And then to the other officer, who was scrutinizing her just a little too carefully, though he did not offer a word.
None of them saw what she saw-the figure of Ramses coming slowly down the stairs. They did not see him come across the front hallway and silently enter the room. That is, until Julie could not tear her eyes off him, and the others realized it and turned to see the source of her fascination-the tall brown-haired man in the dark burgundy silk bathrobe standing in the door.
She was breathless looking at him. Majestic. It was what all Kings should be. Yet he looked otherworldly as though his court had been a place of superhumans. Men of uncommon strength and grand bearing, with vivid and piercing eyes.
Even the robe with its satin lapels looked exotic on him. The slippers were like those from an ancient tomb. The white shirt he wore was unbuttoned, yet that looked curiously "normal," perhaps because his skin had that robust glow to it, and because he thrust his chest slightly forward and stood with feet firmly planted on the floor at parade rest as no modern man would do. This was the posture for commanding subservience, but there was nothing arrogant in his expression. He merely looked at her and at Henry, who had flushed red to the roots of his dark hair.
Henry stared at the open shirt. He stared at the scarab ring that Ramses wore on his right hand. Both the inspectors were staring at him. And Randolph seemed absolutely baffled. Did he recognize the robe he'd given his brother? Rita had backed up against the wall and covered her mouth with her hands.
"Uncle Randolph," Julie said as she stepped forward. "This is a good friend of Father's, just arrived here from Egypt. An Egyptologist whom Father knew quite well. Ah ... Mr. Ram-sey, Reginald Ramsey. I want you to meet my uncie, Randolph Stratford, and this is his son, Henry . . ."
Ramses studied Randolph, then locked his eyes on Henry again. Henry was staring stupidly back at Ramses. Julie made a little gesture to Ramses for patience.
"I think this is not the time for a social gathering," she said awkwardly. "Really, I am quite tired, and caught off guard by all this. . . ."
"Well, Miss Stratford, perhaps it was this gentleman your cousin saw," said the genial policeman.
"Oh, it very well might have been," she answered. "But I must take care of my guest now. He's had no breakfast. I must. . ."
Henry knew! She could see it. She struggled to say something civil and appropriately meaningless. That it was past eight o'clock. That she was hungry. Henry was shrinking into the comer. And Ramses was staring at Henry as Ramses moved behind the two Scotland Yard men, towards that handkerchief, and now with a very graceful and quick gesture, he gathered it up from the floor. No one saw this but Julie and Henry. Glaring at Henry, Ramses shoved the handkerchief into the pocket of his robe.
Randolph was staring at her in utter perplexity; one of the Scotland Yard men was plainly bored.
"You're all right, my dear!" said Randolph. "You're certain."
"Oh, yes, I am indeed." She went to him at once, and taking his arm, guided him to the door. The Scotland Yard men followed.
"My name is Inspector Trent, madam," said the vocal one. "And this is my partner, Sergeant Gallon. You must call us if you need us."
"Yes, of course," she said. Henry appeared on the verge of an outburst. Suddenly he bolted, almost knocking her over, and rushed out the open door and through the crowd gathered on the steps.
"Was it the mummy, sir!" someone shouted. "Did you see the mummy walk!"
"Was it the curse!"
"Miss Stratford, are you unharmed!"
The Scotland Yard men exited immediately, Inspector Trent ordering the crowd to disperse at once.
"Well, what the devil is the matter with him!" Randolph muttered. "I don't understand all this."
Julie held his arm all the tighter. No, he couldn't possibly know what Henry had done. He would never have done anything to hurt Father, not really. But how could she be sure? On impulse she kissed him. She slipped her hand onto the back of her uncle's neck, and kissed his cheek.
"Don't worry, Uncle Randolph," she said suddenly. And she felt herself on the verge of tears.
Randolph shook his head. He was humiliated, even a little afraid, and she felt tragically sorry for him as she watched him go. Sorrier than she had ever felt for anyone in her life. She did not realize he was barefoot until he was halfway down the street.
The reporters were following him. As the Scotland Yard men drove away, a pair of the reporters doubled back, and she retreated quickly, slamming the door. She peered out through the glass at the distant figure of her uncle rushing up his own front steps.
Then slowly she turned and came back into the front room.
Silence. The faint singing of the fountain in the conservatory. A horse passing at a brisk trot in the street outside. Rita shivering in the corner, with her apron a little knot in her feverishly working hands.
And Ramses, motionless, in the middle of the room. He stood with his arms folded, looking at her, feet slightly apart as before. The sun was a warm golden haze behind him, leaving his face in shadow. And the deep radiance of his eyes was almost as distracting as the high sheen of his full hair.
For the first time she understood the simple meaning of the word regal. And another word came to her, quite unfamiliar yet perfectly appropriate. It was comely. And it struck her that no small part of his beauty was his expression. He appeared wonderfully clever, and wonderfully curious, though quite collected, all at the same time. Otherworldly, yet perfectly normal. Grander than human; but human nonetheless.
He merely looked at her. The deep folds of the long heavy satin robe moved ever so faintly in the soft current of warm air from the conservatory doors.
"Rita, leave us," she whispered.
"But miss . . ."
"Go."
Silence again. Then he came towards her. No trace of a smile; only a gentle seriousness, eyes widening a little as he appeared to study her face, her hair, her dress.
How must this flimsy lace peignoir look to him? she thought suddenly. Good Lord, does he think the women of these times wear such things about the house and on the street? But he was not looking at the lace. He was staring at the shape of her breasts beneath the loose silk, at the contour of her hips. He looked at her face again and there was no mistaking his expression. It was passionate suddenly. He drew closer and reached out for her shoulders and she felt his warm fingers tighten.
"No," she said.
She shook her head emphatically and she stepped back. She straighten
ed her shoulders, trying not to admit her fear, or the sudden delicious chill that ran up her back and down her arms. "No," she said again with a faint touch of disapproval.
And as she watched, on the edge of fear, the warmth in her breasts astonishing her, he nodded, backed away and smiled. He made a little open gesture with his hands. He spoke in a soft riff of Latin. She caught her name, the word regina, and the word she knew meant house. Julie is Queen in her house.
She nodded.
Her sigh of relief was impossible to disguise. She was shaking again, all over. Could he see it? Of course.
He made a gesture of asking:
"Panis, Julie," he whispered. "Vinum. Panis. " He narrowed his eyes, as if searching for a proper word. "Edere," he whispered, and gestured gracefully to his lips.
"Oh! I know what you're saying. Food, you want food. You want wine and bread." She hurried to the doorway. "Rita," she called out. "He's hungry. Rita, we must get him something to eat at once."
She turned around to see him smiling at her again, with that great warmth of affection she had seen upstairs. He found her pleasing to look at, did he? If only he knew that she found him almost irresistible, that a moment before she had almost locked her arms around him and- Best not to think of that. No, mustn't think of that at all.
ELLIOTT SAT back in the wing chair, staring forward at the coal fire. He was as close as possible to the grate, his slippered feet on the fender. The heat of it soothed the pain in his legs and in his hands. He was listening to Henry, veering between impatience and an unexpected fascination. God's vengeance upon Henry had been almost complete for his sins. Henry was a scandal.
"You must have imagined it!" Alex said.
"But I am telling you that damned thing got out of that mummy case and came at me. It strangled me. I felt its hand on me; I looked up into its filthy bandaged face."
"Definitely imagined it," Alex said.
"Imagined it, hell!"
Elliott glanced up at the two young men at the end of the mantel shelf to his right. Henry, unshaven, trembling, the glass of Scotch in his hand. And Alex, immaculate, his hands as clean as a nun's.
"And this Egyptologist fellow, you're saying that he and the mummy are one and the same? Henry, you've been out all night, haven't you? You've been drinking with that girl from the Music Hall. You've been-"
"Well, where the hell did the bastard come from if he's not the mummy!"
Elliott laughed softly. He gave the coals a poke with the tip of his silver cane.
Henry went on undaunted.
"He wasn't there last night! He came down the stairs in Uncle Lawrence's bathrobe! And you haven't seen this man! He's no ordinary man. Anybody who looks at him can tell he's not ordinary."
"He's alone there now? With Julie?"
It took so long for Alex to put things together, trusting soul.
"That's what I Ve been trying to tell you. My God! Isn't there anyone in London who will listen to me?" Henry gulped the Scotch, went to the sideboard and filled his glass again. "And Julie's protecting him. Julie knows what happened. She saw the thing come at me!''
"You're doing yourself a disservice with this story," Alex said gently. "No one's going to believe-"
"You realize those papyri, those scrolls," Henry sputtered. "They talk about some kind of immortal something. Lawrence was talking about it to that Samir fellow, something about Ramses the Second wandering for a thousand years-''
"I thought it was Ramses the Great," Alex interrupted.
"They are one and the same, you numbskull. Ramses the Second, Ramses the Great, Ramses the Damned. It was all in those scrolls, I tell you-about Cleopatra and this Ramses. Didn't you read it in the papers? I thought Uncle Lawrence was going soft from the heat."
"I think you need a rest, possibly in hospital. All this talk of a curse-"
"Damn it, don't you understand me! It's worse than a curse. The thing tried to kill me. It moved, I tell you. It's alive."
Alex stared at Henry with a thinly veiled look of revulsion. Same look he reserves for newspapers, Elliott thought glumly.
"I'm going to see Julie. Father, if you'll excuse ..."
"Of course, that's exactly what you should do." Elliott looked into the fire again. "See about this Egyptologist person. Where he came from. She shouldn't be alone in that house with a stranger. It's absurd."
"She's alone in that house with the damned mummy!'' Henry growled.
"Henry, why don't you go home and get some sleep?" Alex asked. "I shall see you later, Father."
"You bloody twit!"
Alex ignored the insult. It seemed an amazingly easy insult to ignore. Henry emptied the glass again and went back to the sideboard.
Elliott listened to the chink of the bottle against the glass. "And this man, this mysterious Egyptologist, did you catch his name?" he asked.
"Reginald Ramsey, try that one on for size. And I could swear she made it up on the spot." He came back to the mantel shelf, resting his elbow on it, with a full tumbler of Scotch, which he sipped slowly, his eyes darting anxiously away as Elliott looked up. "I didn't hear him speak a word of English; and you should have seen the look in his eye. I 'm telling you-you've got to do something!"
"Yes, but precisely what?"
"How the hell should I know? Catch the damned thing, that's what!''
Elliott gave a short laugh. "If this thing or person or whatever it is tried to strangle you, why is Julie protecting it? Why hasn't it strangled her?"
Henry stared forward blankly for a moment. Then he took another deep gulp from the glass. Elliott eyed him coldly. Not mad. No. Hysterical, but not mad.
"What I am asking," Elliott said softly, "is why would it try to harm you?"
"For the love of hell, it's a mummy, isn't it? I was the one traipsing about over there in its bloody tomb! Not Julie. I found Lawrence dead in the damned tomb-"
Henry stopped, as if he had just realized something. He was no longer merely blank-faced; he was in a visible state of shock.
Their eyes locked, but only for an instant. Elliott looked down at the fire. This is the young man I once cared for, he thought, once caressed with tenderness and hunger; once loved. And now he is reaching the end of something, the very end. And revenge ought to be sweet, but it isn't.
"Look," Henry said. He was almost stammering. "There's some sort of twist to this, some sort of explanation. But the thing, whatever it is, has to be stopped. It could have Julie in some sort of spell."
"I see."
"No, you don't see. You think I'm mad. And you despise me. You always have."
"No, not always."
Again they looked at each other. Henry's face was wet now with perspiration. His lip trembled slightly, and then he looked away.
Utterly desperate, Elliott thought. He has nowhere to hide anymore from himself, that's the crux of it.
"Well, whatever you think," Henry said, "I'm not spending another night in that house. I'm having my things sent to the club."
"You can't leave her alone there. It isn't proper. And in the absence of a formal engagement between Julie and Alex, I cannot properly interfere."
"The hell you can't. And the hell I won't go where I wish. I tell you I won't stay there."
He heard Henry turn to go. He heard the glass slammed down on the marble-top sideboard. He heard the heavy steps retreating, leaving him alone.
Elliott leaned back against the damask. There was a dull resonating sound that meant the front door had been slammed shut.
He tried to see the entire incident in perspective, Henry coming here because Randolph did not believe him. What a strange story for a young man to have invented, even one as crazed and desperate as Henry. It did not make sense at all.
"Lover of Cleopatra," he whispered, "guardian of the royal house of Egypt. Ramses the Immortal. Ramses the Damned."
Suddenly he wanted to see Samir again. Talk to him. Of course the story was ridiculous, but ... No. The whole point was that Henry
was deteriorating more rapidly than anyone could have predicted. Nevertheless he wanted Samir to know about this.
He removed his pocket watch. Why, it was still very early. He had plenty of time before his afternoon appointments. If only he could manage to get himself out of this chair.
He had planted the cane firmly on the hearthstones in front of him when he heard his wife's soft tread on the carpet near the door. He sank back again, relieved that he wouldn't feel that excruciating pain for a few more moments, and then he looked up into her eyes.
He had always liked his wife; and now in the middle of his life, he had discovered that he loved her. A woman of impeccable grooming and subtle charm, she looked ageless to him, perhaps because he was not erotically attracted to her. But he knew that she was twelve years his senior, and therefore old, and this disturbed him only because he feared age himself, and he feared losing her.