Her legs were going out from under her. No way to prevent it, and the darkness was rising. And as she felt herself slip downwards, she saw the tall figure dart forward, and she felt the strong arms catch her and lift her and hold her quite firmly, so that she felt almost safe.
She opened her eyes, and looked up into its face. No, his face. His beautiful face. She heard Rita scream from the hallway. And the darkness rose again.
"What the hell are you saying!" Randolph was not really fully awake. He struggled out of the tangle of covers, reaching for his crumpled silk robe at the foot of the bed. "You're telling me you left your cousin there alone in that house with this thing!"
"I'm telling you it tried to kill me!" Henry roared like a madman. "That's what I'm telling you! The damned thing got out of the coffin and tried to strangle me with its right hand!"
"Damn it, where are my slippers! She's alone in that house, you fool!"
Barefoot, he ran into the hall and down the stairway, his robe ballooning behind him.
"Hurry, you imbecile!" he shouted to his son, who hesitated at the top of the steps.
She opened her eyes. She was sitting on the sofa, and Rita was clinging to her. Rita was hurting her. Rita was making little whimpering sounds.
And there was the mummy, standing right there. Nothing about it imagined. Not the dark lock of hair fallen down on his smooth broad forehead. Or his deep shadowy blue eyes. He had torn loose more of the rotted stuff that covered him. He was bare to the waist, a god, it seemed at the moment. Especially with that smile. That warm and embracing smile.
His hair seemed to be moving as she looked at it, as if it were growing before her eyes. It was fuller and more lustrous than it had been before she fainted. But what in God's name was she doing, staring at this creature's hair!
He drew a little closer. His bare feet were free of the cumbersome wrappings.
"Julie," he said softly.
"Ramses," she whispered back.
The creature nodded, the smile lengthening. "Ramses!" he said emphatically, and he made her a very subtle bow with his head.
Dear God, she thought, this is not merely a man gifted with beauty; this is the most beautiful man I've ever seen.
In a daze, she forced herself to climb to her feet. Rita clung to her, but she struggled free of Rita, and then the mummy--the man--reached out and took her hand and helped her to stand.
The fingers were warm, dusty. She found herself staring right into his face. Skin like the skin of any other human being, only smoother, perhaps softer, and full of more high colour--like that of a man who had been running, the cheeks faintly flushed.
He turned his head sharply. She heard it too. Voices outside; argument. A motor car had pulled up in front of the house.
Rita made an awkward dash to the window as if the mummy were going to stop her.
"It's Scotland Yard, miss, thank God for that."
"No, but this is a disaster! Bolt the door at once."
"But miss!"
"Bolt it. Now."
Rita ran to obey. Julie took Ramses' hand.
"Come with me, upstairs, immediately," she said to him. "Rita, put the lid on that coffin. It weighs almost nothing. Close it up fast and come."
No sooner had Rita slid the bolt than they were knocking and pulling the bell. The shrill clanging from the back of the house startled Ramses. His eyes moved quickly over the ceiling and to the back of the house as though he had heard the sound traveling the wire to the kitchen wall.
Julie tugged him gently but urgently, and to her amazement he followed easily as they made their way up the stairs.
She could hear little cries of distress coming from Rita. But Rita was doing as she had been told. Julie heard the thump as the lid of the coffin slid into place.
And Ramses, he was staring at the wallpaper, at the framed portraits, at the knickknack shelf nestled in the corner at the top of the stairs. He was looking at the stained-glass window. He looked down at the wool carpet with its pattern of feathers and twisted leaves.
The pounding was becoming quite impossible. Julie could hear her uncle Randolph calling her name.
"What shall I do, miss?" Rita called out.
"Come up at once." She looked at Ramses, who was watching her with a strange mixture of patience and amusement. "You look normal," she whispered. "Perfectly normal. Beautiful, but normal." She pulled him on down the hallway. "The bath, Rita!" she shouted as Rita appeared, quivering and tentative, behind him. "Quick. Run the bath."
She brought him on towards the front of the house as Rita hurried past. They had stopped their pounding for a minute. She could hear the grind of a key in the lock. But the bolt, thank God for that! The pounding started again.
Ramses was truly smiling at her now, as if he were about to laugh. He peered into the bedrooms as he passed them. Suddenly he saw the electric chandelier hanging on its dusty chain from the ceiling rose above. The tiny light bulbs looked dull and opaque in the daylight, but they were burning, and he narrowed his eyes to study this, gently resisting her for the first time.
"Later you can see it!" she said in panic. The water was roaring into the tub. The steam was pouring out of the door.
He gave her another decorous little nod with a slight lift of his eyebrows, and followed her into the bath. The shining tile seemed to please him. He turned slowly to the window and stared at the sunlight sparkling in the frosted glass. Gently he examined the latch and then he opened the window, pushing out on the two sides until he could see the rooftops spread out before him and the brilliant morning sky above.
"Rita, Father's clothes," Julie said breathlessly. They were going to break down that door any minute. "Hurry, get his robe, slippers, a shirt, whatever you can lay hands on at once."
Ramses lifted his chin and closed his eyes. He was drinking in the sunlight. Julie could see his hair moving ever so slightly; tiny tendrils at his forehead curling. The hair seemed to grow thicker. It was growing thicker.
Of course. This is what woke him from the dream-filled sleep, she realized. The sun! And he had been too weak to do more than struggle with Henry. He had had to crawl into the sunlight before he could gain his full strength.
There were shouts of "Police" from below. Rita came running with a pair of slippers in her hand, and a pile of clothing over her arm.
"There's reporters out there, miss; a whole crowd of them, and Scotland Yard and your uncle Randolph ..."
"Yes, I know. Go down now and tell them we'll be right there, but don't draw back the bolt!"
Julie took the silk bathrobe and white shirt and put them on the hook. She touched Ramses' shoulder.
He turned and looked at her and the immediate warmth of his smile astonished her.
"Britannia," he said softly, his eyes moving from right to left as though to encompass the spot on which they stood.
"Yes, Britannia!" she said. A sudden lovely giddiness took hold of her. She pointed to the bath. "Lavare!" she said. Didn't that mean wash?
He nodded, his eyes taking in everything around him--the brass taps, the steam billowing up from the deep tub. He looked at the clothing.
"For you!" she said, pointing at the robe and then at Ramses. Oh, if only she could remember the Latin. "Vestments," she said desperately.
And then he did laugh. Softly, gently, indulgently. And she found herself petrified again, staring at him, at the smooth shimmering beauty of his face. Lovely even white teeth he had, flawless skin and such an oddly commanding manner as he gazed at her. But then he was Ramses the Great, wasn't he? She was going to faint again if she didn't stop this.
She backed out the door.
"Reste!" she said. "Lavare." She made pleading gestures with both her hands. Then she went to leave, and quite suddenly his powerful right hand closed on her wrist.
Her heart stopped altogether.
"Henry!" he said softly. His face took on an air of menace, but not towards her.
Slowly she caught her breath.
She could hear Rita screaming at the men to stop their banging. Someone was shouting back from the street.
"No, don't worry about Henry. Not now. I'll take care of Henry, you can be sure." Oh, but he wouldn't understand this. Again she gestured for his patience, his forbearance, and then she gently removed his hand from her wrist. He nodded, let her go. She backed away again, and then shut the door and ran down the hallway and down the stairs.
"Let me in, Rita!" Randolph was shouting.
Julie almost stumbled on the bottom step. She rushed into the drawing room. The lid was in place on the coffin! Would they see that faint trail of dust on the floor? But no one would believe it! She wouldn't have believed it!
She stopped, closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and then told Rita to go ahead and open the door.
She turned, a rather prim expression fixed on her face, and watched as her uncle Randolph, dishevelled and barefoot, wearing only his dressing gown, came into the room. The museum guard was right behind him, and two gentlemen who appeared to be police in plainclothes, though she did not know precisely why.
"What in the world is the matter?" she asked. "You woke me from a sound sleep on the sofa. What time is it?" She looked about in confusion. "Rita, what is going on?"
"I'm sure I don't know, miss!" Rita almost screamed. Julie gestured for her to be quiet.
"Oh, my dear, I was terrified," Randolph answered. "Henry said ..."
"Yes? Henry said what?"
The two gentlemen in greatcoats were looking at the spilled coffee. One of them was staring at the open handkerchief with its white powder spilled out on the floor. How very like sugar it looked in the sunlight. And there was Henry, suddenly, hovering at the hallway door.
She stared at him for a sullen moment. Killed my father! But she could not allow herself to feel it just now. She could not allow herself to believe it or she would go mad. She saw him again in her mind's eye, holding out that coffee cup for her; she saw his wooden expression, his pale face.
"Whatever is the matter with you, Henry?" she asked coldly, suppressing the quaver in her voice. "You ran out of here half an hour ago as if you'd seen a ghost."
"You know damned well what happened," he whispered. He was blanched and sweating. He had taken out his handkerchief and he wiped his upper lip, his hand trembling so badly that she could see it.
"Get a grip on yourself," Randolph said, turning to his son. "Now what the devil did you see?"
"The question is, miss," said the shorter of the two Scotland Yard men, "has there been some sort of intruder in this house?"
A gentleman's voice and manner. The fear was leaving her. She could feel her conviction returning as she spoke. "Indeed not, sir. My cousin saw an intruder? Henry, you must have a guilty conscience. You're having hallucinations. I saw no one here."
Randolph eyed Henry furiously. The Scotland Yard men appeared confused.
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 the 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. Ramsey, Reginald Ramsey. I want you to meet my uncle, 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 corner. 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 Galton. 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 disper
se 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.