The Mummy (Ramses the Damned 1)

"Do not attempt to leave Cairo, sir," said the young one, the arrogant one, the one with the pinched nose. "We have your passport."

"You what! That's outrageous," Elliott whispered.

"I'm afraid the same applies to your son. And to Miss Stratford, I've already collected their passports from the desk as well. Lord Rutherford, we must get to the bottom of this."

"You idiot," Elliott said. "I'm a British citizen! You dare do this to me!"

The other man stepped in.

"My lord, let me speak to you candidly! I know of your close relationship with the Stratford family, but do you think Henry Stratford could be connected to these killings? He knew this man in London, the one who was stabbed. As for the American found out at the pyramids, the fellow had been robbed of quite a good deal of money. Now we know Stratford had his ups and downs with regard to money."

Elliott held his gaze without speaking. Pinning it on Henry. That had not occurred to him. Oh, but it was obvious! Pinning it all on Henry, of course. And Henry knew the fellow in London. What luck. What supremely marvellous luck. He eyed the two gentlemen who stood now before him, awkwardly. What if this could work!

"My lord, there's even more to it than that. We have two mysterious thefts as well. Not only the mummy stolen from the Cairo museum; but it seems the mummy's been stolen from Miss Stratford's house in Mayfair too."

"Really."

"And a bit of priceless Egyptian jewelry was found in the possession of Henry Stratford's mistress, a Daisy Banker, a music hall singer...."

"Yes...." Elliott eased back down into his chair.

"Well, what I'm driving at, my lord, is perhaps Stratford was involved in something, you know, some sort of smuggling arrangement ... the jewelry and the coins and the mummies...."

"Mummies ... Henry and mummies ..." Oh, it was too beautiful, and Henry, poor Henry, who had murdered Lawrence, was floating in the bitumen right now. He would begin to laugh, thinly, hysterically, if he weighed it all too deeply.

"You see, Lord Rutherford, we might be looking for the wrong man."

"But then what was Ramsey doing at the museum?" said the younger official a bit impatiently.

"Trying to stop Henry," Elliott murmured. "He must have followed him. He was desperate to talk to Henry, for Julie's sake. Of course."

"But how do we explain the coins!" asked the young man, getting a little steamed now. "We found seven gold Cleopatra coins in Ramsey's room."

"But that's obvious," said Elliott, looking up, the light just dawning. "He must have taken them away from Henry when they quarreled. He knew what Henry was up to. He must have been trying to stop it. Of course."

"But none of this makes sense!" said the younger man.

"Well, it makes a hell of a lot more sense now than it did before," Elliott said. "Poor Henry, poor mad, doomed Henry."

"Yes, I'm beginning to see a pattern," said the old man.

"You are?" Elliott said. "But of course you are. Now, if you'll allow me, I want to consult a lawyer. I want my passport back! I presume I may still consult a lawyer? That privilege of British citizenship has not been revoked?"

"By all means, Lord Rutherford," said the older man. "What could make young Stratford run amok like that?"

"Gambling, old man. Gambling. It's an addiction. It destroyed his life."

Whole, alive, and a madwoman! Madder than she'd been before he gave it to her. That is what his elixir had accomplished. Ah, the fruits of his genius. And how could this nightmare conceivably end?

Back and forth through the honeycombed streets of old Cairo he searched. She had vanished. How could he hope to find her until she gave him some sign?

Had he never gone into the dark shadowy corridors of the Cairo Museum, he would never have gazed on her neglected remains; a different path would have been taken into the future. With Julie Stratford at his side, all the world might have been his.

But he was linked now forever to the monster he'd created, dragging through time with her the suffering he'd sought to put to rest; the mad creature who could remember only the hatred she'd once known for him, and none of the love. Ah, but what then had he expected? That in this new and shining age, a great spiritual transformation would be worked upon her ancient soul?

What if Julie was right, and that soul was not even the soul of Cleopatra! What if the thing was a horrid twin!

The fact was, he didn't know. When he'd held her in his arms, he'd known only that this was the flesh he had once cherished; this was the voice that had spoken to him both in anger and in love; this was the woman who had broken him finally; and taken her own life rather than the elixir--who now taunted him with a fragment of memory, that she'd cried out to him in her dying moments centuries ago; or tried to; and he had not heard her last plea. He loved her, just as he loved Julie Stratford. He loved them both!