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How vital, how passionate, how full of sheer lust for it all he appeared. With a spring in his step he came after her, and climbed into the back of the little cab.
It occurred to her that never in her life had she seen even a smattering of that passion in her beloved Alex. It made her sad for an instant, not because she was really thinking about Alex, but because she had the first inkling of how her old world was fading, of how things were never, never going to be the same.
Samir's office at the British Museum was small, packed with books, and overcrowded perhaps by the large desk and the two leather chairs. But Elliott found it comfortable enough. And thank God the little coal fire kept it very warm.
"Well, I'm not sure that I can tell you that much," Samir said. "Lawrence had only translated a fragment: the Pharaoh claimed to be immortal. He had roamed the world, it seems, since the end of his official reign. He'd lived among peoples the ancient Egyptians didn't know existed. He claimed to have been in Athens for two centuries, to have lived in Rome. Finally he retreated to a tomb from which only the royal families of Egypt could call him. Certain priests knew the secret. It had become a legend by Cleopatra's time. But apparently the young Queen believed."
"And she did whatever was necessary to awaken him."
"So he wrote. And he fell deeply in love with her, approving her liaison with Caesar in the name of necessity and experience, but not with Mark Antony. This embittered him, Lawrence said. There was nothing there to contradict our history. He condemned Antony and Cleopatra for their excesses and their bad judgment just as we have done."
"Did Lawrence believe the story? Did he have any theory--"
"Lawrence was deliriously happy with the mystery. Such an incomprehensible combination of artifacts. Lawrence would have spent the rest of his life trying to solve it. I'm not sure what he really believed."
Elliott reflected. "The mummy, Samir. You examined it. You were with Lawrence when he first opened the case."
"Yes."
"Did you detect anything out of the ordinary?"
"My Lord, you've seen a thousand such mummies. The baffling part was the writing, the command of languages, and, of course, the mummy case."
"Well, I have a little story to tell you," Elliott said. "According to our mutual friend and acquaintance Henry Stratford, the mummy is quite alive. This very morning he stepped out of his coffin, crossed Lawrence's library and tried to strangle Henry in the drawing room. Henry was lucky to escape with his life."
For a moment Samir didn't respond at all. It was as if he hadn't heard. Then softly, "You are joking with me, Lord Rutherford?"
Elliott laughed. "No. I am not joking, Mr. Ibrahaim. And I am willing to wager that Henry Stratford wasn't joking when he told me the story this very morning. In fact, I'm certain he wasn't joking. He was badly shaken; damn near hysterical. But joking, no."
Silence. This is what it means to be speechless, Elliott thought as he looked at Samir.
"You don't have a cigarette, do you, Samir?" he asked.
Without taking his eyes off Elliott, Samir opened a small delicately carved ivory box. Egyptian cigarettes. Perfectly delicious. Samir lifted the gold lighter and handed it to Elliott.
"Thank you. I might add ... for I suppose you are wondering ... this mummy did not hurt Julie at all. And has become in fact her honoured guest."
"Lord Rutherford ..."
"I'm perfectly serious. My son, Alex, went there immediately. As a matter of fact, there were police on the scene even before that. It seems an Egyptologist is staying at the Stratford house, a Mr. Reginald Ramsey, and that Julie is being quite emphatic that she must take her guest about London. She has no time to discuss Henry's inane hallucinations. And Henry, who had seen this Egyptologist, maintains that he is in fact the mummy, walking about in Lawrence's clothes."
Elliott lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
"You're going to hear about all this soon enough from others," he said casually. "The reporters were there in force. 'Mummy Walks in Mayfair.' " He shrugged.
Samir was clearly more stunned than amused. He appeared positively distressed.
"You'll forgive me," he said, "but I don't have a very high opinion of Lawrence's nephew, Henry."
"Of course not, how could you?"
"This Egyptologist. You said that his name was Reginald Ramsey. I have never heard of an Egyptologist by that name."
"Of course you haven't. And you know them all, don't you? From Cairo to London or Manchester, or Berlin or New York."
"I think I do."
"So none of this makes sense."
