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And now, witho
ut spirit or will, he tried to cheat Lawrence's daughter. He tried to cover for ten years of lies and deceit. Lawrence had built Stratford Shipping because he really didn't care about money. Oh, the risks that Lawrence used to take. And what had Randolph done since he took over? Hold the reins and steal.
To his utter amazement Julie lifted the pen and signed her name quickly on all the various papers, without so much as reading them. Well, he was safe from her inevitable questions for a little while.
I'm sorry, Lawrence. It was like a silent prayer. Perhaps if you knew the whole story.
"In a few days, Uncle Randolph, I want to sit down and go over everything with you. I think that's what Father wanted. But I'm so tired. It's really time to go home."
"Yes, let me take you home now," Alex said immediately. He helped her to her feet.
Dear good Alex. Why couldn't my son have had a mere particle of that gentleness? The whole world could have been his.
Quickly Randolph went to open the double doors. To his amazement he found the men from the British Museum waiting. An annoyance. He would have spirited her out another way, if he had known. He did not like the unctuous Mr. Hancock, who behaved as if everything Lawrence had discovered belonged to the museum and the world.
"Miss Stratford," the man said now as he approached Julie. "Everything has been approved. The first showing of the mummy will take place in your home, just as your father would have wished. We will of course catalogue everything, and remove the collection to the museum as soon as you wish it. I thought you would want to have my personal assurance...."
"Of course," Julie answered wearily. This interested her no more than the board meeting, obviously. "I'm grateful to you, Mr. Hancock. You know what this discovery meant to my father." There was a pause again as if she would begin crying. And why not? "I only wish I'd been with him in Egypt."
"Darling, he died where he'd been most happy," Alex offered lamely. "And among the things he loved."
Pretty words. Lawrence had been cheated. He'd had his momentous find for only a few short hours. Even Randolph understood as much.
Hancock took Julie's arm. They moved towards the door together.
"Of course it's impossible to authenticate the remains until we make a thorough examination. The coins, the bust, these are quite unprecedented discoveries...."
"We'll make no extravagant claims, Mr. Hancock. I only want a small reception for Father's oldest friends."
She offered her hand now, in effect dismissing him. She managed such things so decisively, so like her father. So like the Earl of Rutherford when you thought about it. Hers had always been an aristocratic manner. And if only the marriage were to take place....
"Good-bye, Uncle Randolph."
He bent to kiss her cheek.
"I love you, darling," he whispered. It surprised him. And so did the smile that spread across her face. Did she hear what he had meant to tell her? I am so sorry, sorry for everything, my dear.
Alone at last on the marble staircase. All of them gone but Alex, and in her heart of hearts, she wished that he were gone too. She wanted nothing so much now as the quiet interior of her Rolls-Royce limousine with the glass shutting out the noise of the world around her.
"Now, I'm going to say this only once, Julie," Alex said as he helped her down the stairs. "But it comes from my soul. Don't let this tragedy postpone the marriage. I know your feelings, but you're alone in that house now. And I want to be with you, to take care of you. I want us to be husband and wife."
"Alex, I'd be lying to you," she said, "if I told you I could make a decision now. More than ever I need time to think."
She couldn't bear to look at him suddenly; he seemed so young always. Had she ever been young? The question would have made Uncle Randolph smile perhaps. She was twenty-one. But Alex at twenty-five seemed a boy to her. And it hurt her so much not to love him as he deserved to be loved.
The sunlight hurt her eyes as he opened the door to the street. She brought the veil down from the brim of her hat. No reporters, thank God no reporters, and the big black motor car there waiting with the door open.
"I won't be alone, Alex," she said gently. "I have Rita and Oscar there. And Henry's moving back into his old room. Uncle Randolph insisted upon it. I'll have more company than I need."
Henry. The last person in the world she wanted to see was Henry. What an irony that he had indeed been the last person her father saw before his eyes closed in death.
The reporters mobbed Henry Stratford as he came ashore. Had the mummy's curse frightened him? Had he glimpsed anything supernatural at work in the little rock chamber where the death of Lawrence Stratford had taken place? Henry fought his way through customs in silence, ignoring the noisy, smoky flashes of the cameras. With icy impatience he glared at the officials, who checked his few suitcases and then waved him past.
His heart thudded in his ears. He wanted a drink. He wanted the quiet of his own home in Mayfair. He wanted his mistress, Daisy Banker. He wanted anything but the dreary ride with his father. He avoided Randolph's eyes altogether as he climbed into the back of the Rolls.
As the long cumbersome saloon forced its way out of the thick traffic, he caught a glimpse of Samir Ibrahaim greeting a group of black-dressed men--undoubtedly busybodies from the museum. What a fortunate thing that this corpse of Ramses the Great concerned everyone far more than the corpse of Lawrence Stratford, which had been buried without ceremony in Egypt, just as Lawrence had wished.
Good Lord, his father looked dreadful, as if he'd aged overnight some ten years. He was even a little disheveled.
