"If she examines the books herself, I may have to confess everything; and ask for another chance."
It filled him with surprising relief merely to say it. Perhaps it was what he wanted. He gazed at his son from a great remove suddenly. Yes, he should tell his niece everything, and ask for her . , . what? Her help.
Henry was sneering.
"Throwing ourselves on her mercy. Oh, that's lovely."
Randolph looked away, across the long vista of white-draped tables. Only one stooped grey-haired figure remained now, dining alone, in a far corner. The elderly Viscount Stephenson- one of the old landed gentry who still had the bank account to support his vast estates. Well, dine in peace, my friend, Randolph thought wearily.
"What else can we do!" he said softly now to his son. "You might come to work tomorrow. At least make an appearance. ..."
Was his son listening, his son who had been miserable for as long as Randolph could remember, his son who had no future, no ambitions, no plans, no dreams?
It broke his heart suddenly, the thought of it-the long years since his son had been anything but desperate, and furtive, and bitter as well. It broke his heart to see his son's eyes darting anxiously over the simple objects of the table-the heavy silver, the napkin which he had not yet unfolded. The glass and the bottle of Scotch.
"All right, I'll give you some on account," he said. What would another hundred pounds matter? And this was his only son. His only son.
* * *
A somber yet undeniably exciting occasion. When Elliott arrived, the Stratford house was crowded to overflowing. He had always loved this house, with its uncommonly large rooms, and its dramatic central stairway.
So much dark wood, so many towering bookshelves; and yet it had a cheerful atmosphere with the wicked abundance of electric light and the never-ending stretches of gilded wallpaper. But he missed Lawrence sharply as he stood in the front hall. He felt Lawrence here; and all the wasted moments of their friendship came back to torment him. And the long-ago love affair that haunted him still.
Well, he had known it would happen. But there was nowhere else on earth that he wanted to be tonight, except in Lawrence's house for the first official showing of Ramses the Damned, Lawrence's discovery. He made a light dismissive gesture to fend off those who immediately came towards him, and bowing his head he pushed his way gently through strangers and old friends until he reached the Egyptian room. The pain in his legs was bad tonight, because of the damp, as he always said. But luckily he wouldn't have to stand long. And he had a new walking stick that he rather liked, a fancy affair with a silver handle.
"Thank you, Oscar," he said with the usual smile as he took his first glass of white wine.
"Not a moment too soon, old boy," Randolph said to him wearily. "They're going to unveil the ghastly thing now. Might as well come along.''
Elliott nodded. Randolph looked dreadful, no doubt about it. He'd had the wind knocked out of him by Lawrence's death. But he was doing his best here, it was obvious.
They moved together into the front ranks-and for the first time, Elliott laid eyes upon the startlingly beautiful coffin of the mummy.'
The innocent, childlike expression of the golden mask charmed him. Then his eyes moved to the bands of writing that girded the lower portion of the figure. Latin and Greek words written as if they were Egyptian hieroglyphs!
But he was distracted as Hancock of the British Museum called for quiet, tapping a spoon loudly on a crystal glass. Beside Hancock stood Alex, with his arm around Julie, who looked exquisite in her black mourning, her hair drawn severely back from her pale face, revealing to all the world that her features had never needed fancy coifs or other adornments.
As their eyes met, Elliott gave Julie a little melancholy smile, and saw the immediate brightening in her that always greeted him. In a way, he thought, she is more fond of me than of my son. What an irony. But then his son was staring at these proceedings as if he were utterly lost. And perhaps he was, and that was the problem.
Samir Ibrahaim appeared suddenly at Hancock's left. Another old friend. But he did not see Elliott. A bit anxiously, he directed two young men to take hold of the lid of the mummy case and wait for his instructions. They stood with eyes downcast as if faintly embarrassed by the act they were about to perform. And the room went dead silent.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Samir said. The two young fellows at once hoisted the lid and moved it gracefully to one side. "I give you Ramses the Great."
The mummy lay exposed for all to see; the tall figure of a man with arms crossed on his breast, seemingly bald and naked under its thick discolored wrappings.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd. In the golden light of the electric chandeliers and the few scattered candelabra, the form was faintly horrible as they always are. Death preserved and mounted.
There was an uneasy sprinkling of applause. Shudders, even uneasy laughter; and then the thick bank of spectators broke up, some drawing in for a closer look, then backing off as if from the heat of a fire, others turning their backs on the thing altogether.
Randolph sighed and shook his head.
"Died for this, did he? I wish I understood why."
"Don't be morbid," said the man next to him, someone Elliott ought to remember, but didn't. "Lawrence was happy-"
"Doing what he wanted to do," Elliott whispered. If he heard it said even one more time, he would weep.
Lawrence would have been happy examining his treasure.
Lawrence would have been happy translating those scrolls. Lawrence's death was a tragedy. Anyone who tried to make anything else out of it was a perfect fool.
Elliott gave Randolph's arm a gentle squeeze and left him, moving slowly towards the venerable corpse of Ramses.
It seemed the younger generation had decided en masse to block his progress as they surrounded Alex and Julie. Elliott could hear her voice in snatches as conversation regained its spirited volume all around.
"... a remarkable story in the papyri," Julie explained. "But Father had only begun his translation. I should like to know what you think, Elliott."
"What was that, my dear?" He had just reached the mummy itself and he was staring at the face, marveling at how easily one could discern an expression under so many layers of decomposing cloth. He took her hand now as she moved close to him. Others pressed in, trying to get a good look, but Elliott stood his ground rather selfishly.
"Your opinion, Elliott, of the whole mystery," Julie said. "Is this a nineteenth-dynasty coffin? How did it come to be fashioned in Roman times? You know, Father told me once, you knew more about Egyptology than all the men at the museum."
He laughed softly to himself. She glanced about nervously to make sure Hancock was nowhere near. Thank God, he was in the thick of his own little crowd, explaining something about those scrolls, no doubt, and the row of exquisite jars along the wall beneath the mirror.
"What do you think?" Julie prodded again. Had seriousness ever been so seductive?
"Can't possibly be Ramses the Great, my dear," he said. "But then you know that." He studied the painted lid of the coffin again, and once more the body nestled in its dusty swathing. "An excellent job, I must say that. Not many chemicals were used; no smell of bitumen whatsoever."
"There is no bitumen," Samir said suddenly. He had been standing on EUiott's left and Elliott had not even seen him,
"And what do you make of that?" Elliott asked.
"The King has given us his own explanation," Samir said.
"Or so Lawrence told me. Ramses had himself wrapped with all due ceremony and prayers; but he was not embalmed. He was never taken from the cell where he wrote his story."
"What an amazing idea!" Elliott said. "And have you read these inscriptions yourself?'' He pointed to the Latin as he translated: " 'Let not the sun shine on my remains; for in darkness I sleep; beyond all suffering; beyond all knowledge. . . .' Now that is hardly an Egyptian sentiment. I think you'll agree."