The Hammer Horror Omnibus (31 page)

But they went on.

At an inner door stood the cat-headed Bubastis, and beyond it a rich collection of grave furniture—the wardrobe and personal belongings of a prince. There were statues of his god, weapons, grain, sumptuous clothing, and jewellery; and set against the farthest wall was the magnificently ornate sarcophagus bearing upon it the moulded likeness of the body which it contained. The painted eyes stared sightlessly yet with terrifying wisdom upon those who had dared to venture into this sanctuary. Around the sarcophagus were set unguent jars and papyrus boat models. All was ready for the dead ruler when he entered the next world.

The intruders were awed by the splendor of what lay before them. They were scholars and accustomed to relating solid objects to the intangible pattern of history; they were overjoyed by the profusion of material now presented to them; but at the same time they were overwhelmed by the sheer emotional weight and dignity of the long-dead ruler. The objects would be catalogued and explained, the hieroglyphics translated—and yet when all the facts and data were added together, they would somehow not amount to the awesome completeness of this burial chamber.

From a dark corner the gilded head of a vulture gleamed on the arm of a chair. There were treasures everywhere—in the corners, on the walls, heaped lavishly on the floor. No comparable find had been made since the days when Bonaparte marched into Egypt and commanded that the doors of the past should be flung open.

Dubois and Dalrymple soon recovered from their first stupefaction. They set to work reconstructing a period of history from the evidence which the earth had yielded up to them. Their academic interest soon dulled the first holy fear which the tomb had provoked.

But Annette Dubois never quite got over those earlier sensations. Standing behind her father when the inner door was opened, she had felt an almost irresistible urge to turn and run. It was as though someone were about to speak—and she did not want to hear the words. A terrible danger lay within, and it was imperative that they should turn their backs on it while there was still time. Her father’s training was too strong: Annette did not turn away, but waited as light filtered in where no light had been for more than three thousand years . . . waited as it fell on the proud mask of the man who had planned to be left here in peace for all eternity. Later she trembled at the recollection. The smell of the place and the clogging dust of the place and the appalling dead silence of the place would remain with her for the rest of her life. It was as though all those who entered the burial chamber had contracted a mortal disease for which there would never be a cure.

Annette was frightened, and went on being frightened. The normal routine of excavation and cataloguing did not absorb her as it absorbed the others. She felt herself shrivelling in the merciless sun. The sun or the mummy’s vengeful spirit would turn her to powder, blow her away into the shifting sands of the desert. She pleaded with her father to abandon this site, and saw how disappointed he was in her. Always he had relied on her, treating her as a dependable, clear-headed disciple. Now she had shown herself to be a typical, unbalanced woman. He brusquely arranged that she should spend as little time as possible at the diggings. Instead, she stayed in the rock caves where they had set up their headquarters and kept all their records: Annette made herself useful as a clerk, sorting out innumerable sheets of notes into coherence and deciphering the scrawled jottings of her father and Sir Giles Dalrymple.

Even though she contributed little to the work on the site itself, the fear remained with her. It was with her that evening in the cave when her father failed to return from the diggings.

Oil lamps shed a warm glow through the cavern. The curtains at the entrance were still: there was no breeze, no sound from the arid expanse of rock and sand outside. This could have been a romantic setting. She had thought of it as romantic when they arrived, but now it was inhospitable and sinister.

John Bray had been washing the grime of the day from his arms and legs. As he came back from the rear of the cave, Annette looked up at him and asked the question which she had already asked too many times.

“What time is it now?”

His freckled, sun-tanned face puckered into a grin of protest. With an exaggerated sigh he took out a large gold pocket watch. “It’s exactly ten minutes since the last time.”

“I’m sorry.” But it was unlike her father to stay on the site after dark. She would not be at ease until he reappeared.

“Perhaps he’s found something of special interest,” said John reassuringly.

“That Canopic jar”—she tried to accept his attempt—“he was going to reassemble. He must have got lost in the work.”

“Darling, I meant something of real interest—such as a beautiful desert maiden.”

Annette forced a smile. “The only maiden my father is likely to meet would be mummified and at least three thousand years old.”

“Hm.” John nodded. “I suppose that would be too old even for your father.”

Annette let herself laugh. She wanted to laugh. She wanted everything to be light and pleasurable again.

“That’s better,” said John. “Can I get you a drink?”

Without waiting for an answer he went to the locked cupboard which Sir Giles had installed against one ragged wall of the cave. Dalrymple never travelled without what he called his medicine chest. The lock was his own invention, proof even against the most skilled grave robbers.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” asked Annette.

John looked round at the stark floor and walls. “Not here. Not tonight. But I will once we get back to Paris.”

Watching his shadow leaping grotesquely up a wall, and then watching John himself come back towards her with a glass of wine, Annette thought abstractedly that when they got back to Paris, she might well let him. In the twelve months during which they had worked together, making their plans in Europe and then setting to work here, it had somehow come to be taken for granted that they belonged together. If John married her, she knew that her father would be pleased. And Sir Giles would certainly nod a benign blessing on the marriage. John, she trusted, would like it.

And for herself . . . ?

John stooped over her, gave her the glass, and kissed her. Yes, she was very fond of John. They liked the same jokes and the same kind of life. He was dependable, he was creative, he was stimulating to be with; and one day he would be famous in that field of activity which, with her upbringing, she had always regarded as the most important of all.

If her heart sank ever so slightly, dipping just fractionally before she gained control of herself, it was at the prospect of all those years to come which would be the same as the year just gone—digging in gruelling heat, unearthing things best left where they had been hidden, dealing with suspicious natives and uncooperative authorities. Until now she had enjoyed the challenge as much as the others had done. But now some intuition warned her that they had reached a turning-point.

Outside the wind rose suddenly and unexpectedly. It brought with it a chatter of Arab voices. They were silenced by the snap of a command in Sir Giles Dalrymple’s familiar bluff tone. A moment later the curtain was twitched aside and Sir Giles came in.

He was a plump man who seemed unable to shed even an ounce of his considerable weight even after weeks in the blazing sun. His crisp, curt voice did not go well with his rubicund, almost babyish face. One expected him to squeak; instead, he spoke with military precision. It made him sound cruder and more forceful than he really was. It carried him and his colleagues through many difficulties and apparent impasses. Only when he was actually working on a dig did his basic gentleness come through: then, utterly absorbed, he would sift through sand in search of the minutest fragment of archaeological evidence, and handle everything he touched as though afraid of its dissolving into dust.

Now he looked stern and very tired. His expression heralded some disaster. Annette knew it. She was on her feet before he could reach her.

“Annette, my dear . . .”

“My father,” she said. “Where is he?”

Sir Giles stood aside. Hashmi, the dark, lean representative of the Egyptian Government, who had been with them since the start of their operations, followed him into the cave and held back the curtain. Two stretcher-bearers entered. Annette could not see the face of the body which they carried between them. She did not need to see. She had known all along—in the depths of her had been waiting for just this.

The two men advanced into the middle of the cave and then, as though at a prearranged signal, dropped the stretcher. The covering fell away from the face of Professor Dubois. His mouth was twisted in a grimace of agony that could now never be wiped away. His sightless eyes stared up at the roof.

John Bray gasped. Annette, dazed, felt him brush past her, and then he struck the first stretcher-bearer so violently that the bony little man stumbled backwards and fell to the ground.

“John!” Sir Giles caught his arm.

“He did that deliberately. The leader—I saw him. He meant to drop it . . . contemptuously.”

Hashmi stepped forward. “You must be wrong, Mr. Bray. It is not our way to be disrespectful to the dead.”

“I know all about your ways,” said John furiously. “We have had quite a demonstration of them in recent months. The stealing of our stores . . . inciting our labor force to desert us . . . Oh, yes”—the anger bubbled out of him—“you were grateful at first. We had money to spend, and you were happy to get your hands on it. But then we found the tomb of Ra Antef. You took one look inside and decided you wanted it for yourselves. And now . . .” He obscured Annette’s father from her view. He was staring down at the dead face. “This is what you’ve done to Professor Dubois. You’re trying to frighten us away from here, aren’t you?”

“How dare you make such accusations! My Government and I have given you every possible cooperation.”

“You’ve given us no—”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” intervened Sir Giles mildly but firmly. “This is no way to hallow the memory of Professor Dubois.”

He indicated to the porters that they should pick up the stretcher again. Glancing nervously at John, they obeyed, and carried it on into one of the smaller chambers behind the cave. Annette watched it go. All the strength had fled from her limbs. She wanted to follow, to touch her father and tell him to wake up, not to lie there still and mute; but she could not move.

Hashmi said: “I demand that you withdraw—”

“We’ll strike camp tomorrow,” said Sir Giles decisively. “We are returning to Cairo.”

Hashmi swung away from John, incredulous. “But your work here is not yet finished.”

“For the safety of the treasures and ourselves, we’ll complete the tabulations in the city.”

John snorted. “It seems that your tactics have worked after all, Hashmi. Now we fold our tents and run away.”

Hashmi’s eyes seemed to recede into impenetrable shadow. The flame of the oil lamp on a bench close to him swayed slightly, and runnels of darkness coursed down his sombre features. He said in an undertone that murmured its way into the far, echoing corners of the cave:

“You cannot run away. There is no escape from the curse of the mummy’s tomb.”

Annette felt a chill clutch at her heart. Knowing how her father would have derided the mere idea, she had not ventured to say anything about the old legends of the Pharaohs who had sealed their tombs not with wax or metal but with an undying curse. But she had sensed the power of that incantation from the very moment of entering the tomb.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Hashmi.”

“We are doomed to die.” Hashmi lowered his head and for a moment might have been wrapt in prayer. “I, too—for I have transgressed with you. We are doomed to die for our acts of desecration.”

“If you believe you can pull the wool over my eyes with these old legends—”

“It is not wool that obscures your eyes, Mr. Bray, but a lack of vision.”

With a shaking hand Sir Giles opened his cupboard. He poured himself a stiff brandy and gulped it down.

John said slowly: “The tomb of Ra holds no curses, Hashmi. There are only the bones and the belongings of an ancient prince. Good can come of this discovery, but not evil.”

Annette found herself moving towards the chamber in which her father’s body had been laid. The two porters came out and edged round the wall, keeping a good distance between themselves and John Bray.

Annette went in and bent over the bed on which her father had been stretched out.

Then she screamed.

One arm lay by his side, the hand limp. The other arm was at an angle across his body, terminating in a torn, bloody stump. And beside the corpse on the bed was the severed hand with a knife an inch away, caked with blood.

Sir Giles was suddenly behind her, supporting her as she swayed backwards. John hurried in and stood between her and the horror on the bed.

He said: “The sooner we’re away from here, the better.”

3

A
ll that week they worked feverishly, recording and checking, drawing diagrams of the burial chamber and meticulously marking every treasure that was removed. It would never be said by future scholars that the King Expedition had been slovenly and unscientific at any stage of its excavations. Crates were brought in from Cairo. Hashmi, almost as disturbed as the Europeans by the fate which had befallen Professor Dubois, rode to and fro making arrangements with the Government and with the Cairo Museum authorities. John still regarded him with deep suspicion, but was forced to admit that Hashmi was working unflaggingly on their behalf. Perhaps it was simply that the sly, mistrustful Egyptian wanted to see the back of them: he was making the way home smooth for them.

On one of his trips back to the diggings he brought with him two elderly savants from the Museum who grumbled at the way in which they had been hustled into making this journey, and then ceased to grumble when they saw what the expedition had brought to the light of day. The immediate result was an offer of seventy thousand pounds from the Museum for the treasures of Ra Antef. This would pay all the costs of the expedition and leave a considerable profit for its members.