There came that sound again, the sound that had startled her the night before. But no, it wasn't a sound, not really. Just the breath of this great house. Of timbers and plaster in the warmth of the morning. She closed her eyes for a moment. And then Rita's step sounded in the hall. Of course, it had been Rita all along ... the sound of another very near--heartbeat, breath, the subtle shift of garments in motion.
"Well, miss, I tell you I don't like that thing in the house," Rita said. Was that her feather duster softly brushing the living room furniture?
Julie didn't turn around to look. She looked at the mummy. She approached it now and looked up into its face. Good Lord, she had not really seen it last night. Not as she was seeing it now in this great warm glare. It had been a living breathing man, this thing, locked forever in its cerements.
"I do declare, miss, it gives me the shivers."
"Don't be absurd, Rita. Bring me some coffee, like a good girl." She drew even closer to the thing. After all, there was no one here to stop her. She could touch it if she wished. She listened for Rita's retreat. Heard the kitchen door open and close. Then she did reach out and touch the linen bandages that covered the right arm. Too soft, too fragile. And hot from the sun!
"No, this is not good for you, is it?" she asked, glancing up at the thing's eyes as if it were rude to do otherwise. "But I don't want them to take you away. I'll miss you when you're no longer here. But I won't let them cut you open. That much, I promise you."
Was that dark brown hair she saw beneath the bandages that surrounded the skull? It seemed there was a great thickness of it there, bound painfully tight to the bones, giving a horrid effect of baldness. But it was the overall spectacle that really caught her and carried her away now from the details. The thing had a distinct personality, rather like a fine sculpture would have. Tall, broad-shouldered Ramses with his head bowed, and his hands in that attitude of resignation.
The words in the diary came back to her with painful clarity.
"You are immortal, my love," she said. "My father's seen to it. You may curse us for opening your tomb, but thousands will come to see you; thousands will eventually speak your name. You will live forever...."
So strange that she was on the verge of tears. Father dead. And this which had meant so much to him. Father in an unmarked grave in Cairo as he had wanted it to be; and Ramses the Damned the toast of London.
Suddenly she was startled by Henry's voice.
"You're talking to that damned thing, just the way your father did."
"Good Lord, I didn't know you were here! Where did you come from?"
He stood in the archway between the two drawing rooms, his long serge cape hanging loosely from one shoulder. Unshaven, very likely drunk. And that smile of his. It was chilling.
"I'm supposed to be looking out for you," he said, "remember?"
"Yes, of course. I'm sure you are absolutely delighted."
"Where's the key to the drinks cupboard? It's locked, you know. Why the devil does Oscar do that?"
"Oscar's gone till tomorrow. Perhaps you should have coffee, besides. That would do you the most good."
"Would it now, my dear?" He removed the cape as he walked arrogantly towards her, his eyes sweeping the Egyptian room as if he did not entirely approve of it. "You never let me down, do you?" he asked, and flashed that bitter smile again. "My childhood playmate, my cousin, my little sister! I loathe coffee. I want some port or sherry."
"Well, I have none," she said. "Go on upstairs and sleep it off, why don't you?"
Rita had come to the door, was waiting as if for instructions.
"Coffee for Mr. Stratford, too, please, Rita," Julie said, because he hadn't moved. It was perfectly clear he wasn't going anywhere. He was staring at the mummy, in fact, as if it had startled him. "Did Father really speak to him like that?" she asked. "The way I was doing?"
He didn't immediately answer. He turned away, and moved to inspect the alabaster jars, even his posture slouching and arrogant.
"Yes, talked to it as if it could talk back. And Latin of all things. If you ask me, your father had been sick for some time. Too many years in the desert heat squandering money on corpses and statues and trinkets and trash."
How his words stung her. So careless, yet so hateful. He paused before one of the jars, with his back to her. In the mirror she saw him scowling down at it.
"It was his money, wasn't it?" she asked. "He made enough for all of us, or so he thought."
He turned around sharply.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, you haven't managed yours very well, have you?"
"I've done the best I can. Who are you to judge me?" he asked. Suddenly, with the sunlight harshly illuminating his face, he looked frighteningly vicious.