Cynthia Bailey Pratt Page 5

  “Which of these gods does it honor?”

  Julia had not imagined that she would be answering more questions than she would ask. “It is a place dedicated to knowledge of all kinds.”

  “Then it belongs to He Who is Scribe to the Gods.”

  Julia thought Thoth but did not say it. “I suppose he has as much claim here as anyone. In this place is more than the wisdom and gifts of Egypt, but galleries devoted to every great kingdom.”

  “Only the Upper and the Lower Kingdoms can be called great. All else is barbarity—excepting miraculous Punt.”

  “Ah... Punt?”

  “You are an ignorant child! Come ... show me these galleries. I will judge their worth.”

  “In a moment, my lady.” The kindly face of Mrs. Pierce, now owned by a stronger will, frowned again, but Julia dunked the scrub brush and brought it dripping over to the spot at the foot of the coffin. Though her skin crawled at the thought of touching the only evidence left of Billy the Wall, she couldn’t very well leave it.

  An-ket’s frown cleared. “It is fit you should purify the temple. I will ‘elp with a prayer.” She raised her arms. “Lady of the Heavens, Mother of Horus, thou art justified against ‘im who sought to ‘arm thy servant. Thine enemy is thrown down and unmade. Let none stand against thee. I, thy faithful one, declare thy power!”

  The mark came up more quickly than Julia would have believed possible. There seemed to be no permanent damage to the smooth floor. She only wished she had a journal by her in order to write down the precise wording of An-ket’s prayer. Memory was too unreliable. Even now, the words seemed to be fading away like a soft perfume.

  As she stood up, she felt her head spin and a queer feeling settled on her limbs, so that she could not tell if she was standing firm on the ground or not. In that spinning moment, she didn’t know whether An-ket had found her way to modern-day Britain, or if she herself had somehow traveled into the past. The otherworldly statues above her, the difficulty of belief, and above all a lack of sleep and decent food combined to give her a feeling of being detached from everything she knew about the world. If An-ket really were An-ket, then all Julia’s notions about how the world worked would have to be reconsidered.

  After feeling as though she’d walked off a carousel following a few too many revolutions, Julia found her equilibrium again. Whether temporary insanity, spiritualism, or fantasy, she owed it to Egyptology to treat this as reality, on the admittedly off-chance that it was real. A greater opportunity to learn could not be imagined—a fig for what Simon Archer might say!

  As she followed An-ket to the exit, Julia asked, “Who is pharaoh in your time, my lady?”

  “In my time. What do you mean? Are not all times one?” An-ket smiled, with a warmth and humor that made Mrs. Pierce’s gapped teeth charming. “Yet to answer you, innocent one, I say Kheper-ka-re, son of the Great God Sehetep-ib-re.”

  The names meant nothing to Julia. Selfishly, she’d wanted to hear “Ramesses the Second” or “Ptolemy the Thirteenth,” some king the reign of whom she knew something already. To add to the knowledge about the pharaoh who had spoken with Moses or Julius Caesar would be the fulfillment of her dearest dreams.

  She must try to pin down the time of this pharaoh. She sought to frame her next question when someone else asked a question instead.

  “What the de’il's going on here?”

  The watchman, elderly but still burly, raised his lantern high, holding a knobby stick threateningly high in the other. A waft of alcohol came toward them. On a hiccup, he said, “Is it you, then, ma’am? Who’s that with you?”

  An-ket paused, glancing over her shoulder at Julia. There was marvelous grace in her pose, as though she stepped down from the frieze around a tomb’s inner wall. Her nineteenth-century clothing was immaterial. “Is this another dangerous man?” she asked.

  “No,” Julia whispered. “He’s the ... the guardian of this place.”

  “Ah! Peace and ‘ealth to thee, my friend.”

  “Eh?” The watchman looked closely at her, leaned unsteadily nearer yet and sniffed her breath. “You been havin’ a wee dram, Roberta?”

  Julia said hurriedly, “Mrs. Pierce isn’t... isn’t herself. I’ll see to it that she goes straight home.”

  “An’ who might you be, miss? I don’t recall lettin’ you in here. This is a museum, you know, not the Wayfarer’s Rest. I think you’d better come wi' me down to my ...” He peered past the two women into the room of relics. Dropping his stick, he ran into the room. “How did that window come to be open? What’s all this glass... ?” There was a sob in his voice. “Never say there’s been a robbery?”

  Julia didn’t want to stay to face the questions that would be asked once the constabulary was called in. She took An-ket by the arm. “We have to leave,” she said firmly.

  “Very well. Let us bid farewell—

  “No. Now.”

  “It seems discourteous.”

  “He won’t mind. Come along.”

  Julia had trouble hurrying An-ket. With her graceful stride, she seemed incapable of going any faster. That, plus her interest in the objects they passed in the near darkness, sent Julia’s blood pounding from anxiety. At any instant she expected to hear the watchman cry out for the police. They wouldn’t find anything missing, of course, but the whole affair looked suspicious.

  Outside the museum the street was quiet, though from somewhere not too far away came the sound of music and laughter. Someone in Bloomsbury besides themselves was having a late night. The trees cast deep shadows over the wetly gleaming streets. On the corner across from the museum, a large scaffolding arose the framework of a new hotel.

  An-ket turned her head from side to side. “What city is this? It is not Thebes.”

  “No, it’s London.”

  “I know not London. Is it in the South?”

  “It’s a thousand miles west of Thebes.”

  “Ah, so this is the West.”

  “No, not the way you mean. It’s a city like Thebes or Memphis, but newer. My country is England, as yours was Egypt.”

  “Was? For the second time, my child, you speak of my life as though it were in the past.”

  “What do you remember?” Julia wanted to know now not merely because of her own interest but because she could only imagine how she would feel waking up two thousand years after she fell asleep. What would the world be like then? She thought about St. Thomas More’s Utopia but wondered if mankind would change so much. How much difference was there really between her and An-ket when it came to the deepest fundamentals?

  “I remember the heat of the day,” An-ket said, tugging at the shawl she wore. “The pure shining gold of the god as he rose above the desert on his journey through the sky. The lapis pool that reflected the statue of my goddess was warmed by his loving touch. And when the night came, how brilliant the stars above the Red Land!”

  “Yes.” Julia sighed. “That is how I see it in my dreams.”

  She looked up at the sky, dim and shifting with smoke. “We are much farther north than Egypt. It is colder here. Even now in summer, we use fires to warm our houses.”

  “Why do you not all move to where the Sun God is more kindly disposed?”

  “Many of us do. England owns a great empire, my lady, from the Indus to the Atlantic Ocean. It stretches farther than Alexander the Great’s.”

  “Who is he? A rival king?”

  Well, Julia thought, that is one clue. An-ket lived before Alexander conquered so much of the pre-Roman world and became pharaoh himself, briefly.

  They had walked, unknowingly, in the direction of the music. Now An-ket stopped to listen, smiling. “What a pleasant sound.”

  “It’s just singing and a violin.”

  “The people must be happy.”

  “They do sound as if they are having a good time.”

  The music came from a public house. The frosted glass windows showed them only shadows moving on the inside, lit by the fl
ickering yet continuing glow of the gas lamps.

  “This is a place of drinking?”

  “Yes, you can buy beer in there.”

  “Beer?” A thirsty gleam came into An-ket’s eyes.

  Julia recalled that most authorities were unanimous in agreeing that the Egyptian’s main drink was a sort of sour beer, ill-filtered and, of course, without the necessary hops, which had been a late English addition to the brew. She herself had never stepped foot inside a public house, but she had grown accustomed to the taste of cider during the past few harvest festivals.

  “I suppose there’s no harm in going in,” she said hesitatingly and found herself following An-ket.

  Perhaps it was the yeasty odors of ale and apple cider that made Simon Archer look at them so strangely when they arrived an hour later at Dr. Mystery’s residence.

  Chapter Five

  Simon felt like a kettle coming to the boil. He could almost feel little spurts of steam escaping him, so he sat in the large, semi-darkened room and kept his lips tightly shut. There’d been a lot of chatter from “Dr. Mystery” about waiting for the hour of midnight to begin his hocus-pocus, but Simon felt strongly that he was only waiting until the people in the room had reached the proper level of receptivity.

  They were a mixed bag at best. Several were women. Two who had come in alone wore the mourning of recent bereavement and spoke only to each other, and then in whispers. Two others sat with their obviously disapproving brother, Mr. and the Misses Cross. As the hours passed, Mr. Cross went from being very much on his dignity to the schoolboy he’d probably been no later than last year. His sisters had begun by giggling and addressing such remarks as “isn’t it exciting” to everyone whether they knew them or not. Now they sat close together, holding hands, and showing the whites of their eyes.

  The men ranged from Mr. Cross to a retired admiral. One man wore a rather loud checked suit, while yet another looked like a banker in a stiff collar. A third was second cousin to an earl while his friend was engaged to the earl’s daughter. One thing all the people—with three exceptions—had in common was that they smelled of money. Simon was too well acquainted with rich men, from whom he had in the past begged money to continue his excavations, to be deceived. Dr. Mystery had hooked some large and opulent fish.

  The three exceptions were the members of the press. The fellow sitting closest to Simon had introduced himself as “Wilson, of the Standard.” Clyde, of the Record, had a beard, while Partridge, of the Morning Intelligencer kept reaching for his cigar case, glancing at the women, and putting it back.

  “What are you going to do here tonight, Professor?” Wilson had asked. “Ask this ghostie what goes on in Hades?”

  “I want first to discover what method Dr. Mystery uses to ‘call spirits from the vasty deep.’ I have made an extensive study of Egyptian magical beliefs. I doubt Dr. Mystery has.”

  Wilson wrote that down. “That call spirits line is clever, Professor. You ever dabble with writing?”

  Clyde had given Wilson a nudge and muttered “Shakespeare.” Wilson nodded. “You like Shakespeare, Professor? Hey, what did you think of that play... er... Antony and Shebal. I’m in line for drama critic. Snuggest position on the paper. Going to plays and writing ‘em up. What a doddle.”

  Simon tried not to laugh in the man’s face. “I’m sure you’ll shine there as a leading light of literary criticism.”

  Wilson poked Simon with the point of his pencil. “You’re a grand chap, Professor. I’ll tell you plainly—we of the press were planning to row you a bit on this spiritualism business.”

  “Row me?”

  “You know ... eminent professor chasing after spook doctor. We were going to show the funny side, hand the shopkeepers and the chambermaids a laugh at the doings of their betters. But don’t you worry. The Standard'll give you fair play and these other fellows’ll follow my lead.”

  Clyde nodded while Partridge shrugged. “I’d rather make the professor hero of the day than this Dr. Mystery fellow. He gives me the feeling my grandfather used to get.”

  “What feeling is that?” Simon asked.

  “The feeling he’d like a drink. Dusty as the grave in here. Don’t suppose any of you fellows thought to bring a flask?”

  Simon hesitated for a moment and then reached inside his coat. “I always carry spirits in case of emergency.”

  “Well, this is one.” With a glance at the others in the room, Clyde took a quick drink. “That’s the dandy. No doubt about your write-up, Professor. Here, Partridge.”

  The newspaper reporters all drank, once for their thirst and another for good luck. Simon did not drink. He wanted all his senses at their sharpest when Dr. Mystery began to play his tricks.

  He’d no sooner slipped the flask into his pocket again when the clock on the impressively carved mantelpiece sounded the single stroke of the quarter-hour. One of the Misses Cross gave a gasp that was like a shriek cut off in the moment of beginning. The general cleared his throat grumpily. “Remarkable chap, but does like to keep people wailing.”

  Simon scented the faintest aroma floating on the air. He glanced about him casually. The room was lit mostly by the light of fat white candles, but a small fire burned as well. The ladies had at first complained of the stuffiness of the room but soon forgot their discomfort in favor of impatience. Now, glancing at the fire, Simon saw that a small cone of some kind of powder had built up on the foremost log. A little more sifted down from inside the chimney. Had the striking of the clock released some mechanism that caused the powder to fall? Was this the real reason Dr. Mystery waited until midnight to perform?

  He walked to the fireplace. The scent was stronger here. It was familiar—all too familiar. He knew that certain drugs were smoked in the cafes of the East that were illegal or ill thought of in England. Living among the Arabs, he’d grown used to the smell of kif, a mild narcotic smoked in their hours of leisure. He’d smoked it himself once or twice when he could not avoid it without giving offense. He could not be mistaken in it now.

  Returning to his place, he looked about him. The women in weeds had ceased to look mournful. One leaned back against her chair, smiling faintly, while the other looked half asleep. The Cross sisters leaned ever more heavily on one another, and their brother’s face relaxed into easygoing stupidity. The press was in no more alert frame of mind.

  Then Dr. Mystery was among them. Even Simon, who forced himself to stay alert by pinching his thigh, had not noticed his entrance, so that his sudden appearance had the effect of magic. The quite relaxed audience forced themselves to sit upright again, lifting heavy eyelids in an attempt to look attentive.

  “Good evening, dear friends. Come to the table where all are equal, all are mere seekers after Truth.”

  Large doors on the far side of the room suddenly opened, showing them an even darker room beyond. A round table, lit with a single candelabra, stood in the center surrounded by chairs. One lonely candle burned at the head of the table. There was also a strange, square box with a small window inset on one side.

  Dr. Mystery, a youngish man rather on the thin side, held out his hand as Simon began to pass in. “Greetings to you, especially, Mr. Archer. I know your purpose in coming here tonight.”

  “So does half of England,” Simon said coolly.

  “Yes, of course. I meant no imputation of clairvoyance.” Dr. Mystery had a charming smile between his small mustache and tuft of beard. These, together with the pomade that sleeked back his heavy dark hair, marked him as something apart from the general run of Englishmen. Yet one could overlook these personal idiosyncrasies once under the power of his voice.

  It was his voice that must inevitably make him his fortune. It was smooth and even, as comforting as the sound of a small brook running past a cool green bank. There was even a chuckle in it, friendly and likable. One might follow such a brook down to the sea, never noticing when it became a mighty current taking control of one’s simple barque.

  Sim
on said, “I’m keeping an open mind.”

  “That’s not quite true, is it? You hope you will convince these good people and indeed the rest of England—

  “I’m even more ambitious than that,” Simon said blandly. For an instant he saw the snap of something fanatical in Dr. Mystery’s dark eyes.

  But he went on smiling and whatever he felt made no eddy in his trickling voice. “In the eyes of the world, then, you wish to expose me as a fraud. You will not succeed. I am no fraud. I have the power to bring Pharaoh before you. Ask him what you will. He will answer you truthfully. There is nothing but Truth in the room beyond. Believe me.”

  Everyone was waiting for them in the “room beyond” but they displayed no signs of impatience. Simon knew this was the drug acting on them. To someone under its influence, with just that much of their natural doubts quieted, and their own desire to believe working in them, Dr. Mystery’s voice would have a powerful effect even without the appearance of apparitions. Whatever trickery he had planned would seem all the more real to victims with senses too dull to notice inconsistencies.

  Fortunately the only effect kif had on Simon was to give him a raging headache.

  By holding him at the door, Dr. Mystery could be certain that the seats nearest to himself were already taken. Simon made do at the farthest end from Mystery.

  “For those of you who have not attended one of our meetings before, permit me to explain the few simple rules I have created to make our experiments less dangerous.” The Cross sisters looked worried. “Please,” Dr. Mystery said with a wave of his hand. “Don’t be alarmed. There is no physical danger. The spirits want only to communicate with us. The only time there is any possibility of danger is if someone among us panics when the manifestations begin.”

  He touched the polished wooden box on the table. “This is my invention. Notice that there is a small indicator needle inside this window. If the power of the spirits grows to a dangerous level, the needle will move to the right, into the range marked in red. If that happens, a little bell will ring. That will be our signal to stop until the level of psychic energy drops again. Will you be so kind as to keep your eye upon the needle?”