The Hammer Horror Omnibus (40 page)

“Not now,” said Adam imperiously.

“When you’re quite recovered, sir, of course.”

“I’ll notify you when that is.”

Dubiously the sergeant went away to report. Adam sank back on the bed and put out his hand. Annette took it.

She said: “I still don’t understand. I . . . it makes no sense.”

“It will.” Adam stared at the ceiling. “It will all make sense when you know the truth.”

“The truth? But why should the mummy attack you? If all the old legends are true, it should be seeking out the . . . the desecrators of the tomb . . . meaning Sir Giles and John and myself.” Annette shivered. “But you had nothing to do with it. You weren’t there. Just because you offered us hospitality when we got to England . . .”

She was bewildered by his calmness. In spite of that terrible attack on him he showed no fear, not even a trace of resentment that his generosity should have had such results. As he lay there tranquilly with his eyes open, gazing at something remote which she could not share with him, he seemed almost to be welcoming what had happened and would happen. He might have been waiting a lifetime for it—a lifetime of incredible length.

He said: “When those people downstairs have gone, we will talk.”

“They’ll be here for ages yet.”

“No,” he said softly, “I don’t think so.”

As though to confirm this, there was a tap at the door and John came in. His eyes took in the scene—Adam with his hand in Annette’s, the two of them caught in a world of their own—but his voice was steady as he said:

“We’ve got to lure it out into the open. If I was right about the incantation, that’s the best way. We’ve got to go and see Sir Giles—got to make him work with us, if we have to pump the alcohol out of him first!”

Adam continued to stare upwards. “You’re very . . . determined,” he said abstractedly.

“Yes,” said John with unusual vigor. “I am. And when you’ve quite recovered,” he added ironically, deliberately setting out to bring a flush to Annette’s cheeks, “perhaps you’ll contribute your little bit by making a detailed statement to the policeman downstairs. He’ll stay there on guard until you’re ready.”

Annette recognized the threat in the words. It made no impression on Adam, but she was suffused with a sudden misery, like a child deprived of a promised holiday. Something menaced their happiness. They would not be allowed to leave early in the morning. They were involved in this horror and would not be able to flee from it until the whole affair was cleared up. John could hardly conceal his gratification: in his view the policeman would be a gaoler rather than a protector.

She said: “I think Adam should rest.”

“See that he does, then.”

John turned and left them. They heard his footsteps die away, and a little while later the front door slammed.

After a long pause Adam said: “They must be very foolish if they think I cannot get past a policeman in my own house.”

“Shall we . . .” Annette fumbled, hardly daring to put it to the test. “Are we going to leave, as we planned? Will we be able to go after all?”

“First,” he said, “I think you should know the truth.”

He turned over to face her. She was shocked by the impression of age communicated by his eyes. He was not the Adam she had thought she knew: there was someone else there, someone who must always have been waiting.

“You’re tired,” she said, trying to put off the moment when irrevocable things might be said. “We can talk later.”

He said: “I have so much to tell you. Think back first to the legend of Ra. Even there, there are facts which none of you could see when you tried to interpret the writings. And some details of the story are lost in the mists of antiquity. How much simpler for all your earnest scholars and interpreters if they had had access to the missing fragments! You see, when Rameses heard the news of the death of Ra, his favorite son, he suffered a stroke which was finally to kill him. Before he died he sent emissaries to ensure that Ra should have a worthy burial. This much you know. But you do not know that on his deathbed he sent for the person who had been responsible for the death of Ra and, truly, for his own impending death. He cursed that person—cursed him to everlasting life, unless he could die by the hand of his own brother.”

“How would you know this?” Annette whispered.

“Because I am that person.” Adam sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and stood in the middle of the room. He lifted his head arrogantly, once more staring beyond her into the infinite. “I am Be, younger son of Rameses the Eighth, Pharaoh of Pharaohs.”

The house was still. The walls of the spacious room seemed to contract and close in on Annette. She wanted to believe that she was listening to a madman, but knew that she was not. He had promised her the truth and this was it.

“Cursed to eternal wandering,” he brooded, “for I could never die. The only person who could release me from the curse had already been destroyed at the hands of my hired assassins. My father had knowingly burdened me with this grotesque fate. No escape for me unless I could be killed by one already dead—a mockery, an impossibility . . .” He was convulsed by a groan of despair, echoing with the memories of thousands of years. And then he said almost inaudibly: “Until now.”

13

T
he corpse of Sir Giles Dalrymple lay in ghastly ruin in his library. When his housekeeper had tapped several times on the door and then opened it to admit John, Hashmi, and Inspector Mackenzie, she collapsed.

The Inspector sent for more men, and while John and Hashmi ploughed their way through books from Sir Giles’s shelves, policemen examined the body and the floor, the shattered window and the debris around the desk. Finally the corpse was removed. Whatever doubts his superiors might cast on his reports, the Inspector was beginning to believe the gruesome story advanced by John Bray and the Egyptian.

The curtains stirred in the draught through the broken window. The Inspector suggested that he should try to have it boarded up without delay, but John was firm about this.

“I have a feeling in my bones”—the phrase made the Inspector shudder—“that we may be disturbed. And I think it’s best to make things easy. Leave the window as it is. We won’t be too cold. But if you could deploy your men . . .”

Inspector Mackenzie guaranteed to take the necessary precautions and then left the two men to their studies.

The reference books proved unhelpful. They said what John had expected them to say, confirming all that he and Hashmi had based their suspicions on. Every solitary reference to the curse agreed that only those directly involved in opening the tomb were in mortal danger. There must be some other element, something which had never been told and never written down.

It was inconceivable that the mummy, restored to its grim semblance of life, should be simply a mindless killer. Yet where would it stop; how could one tell who was in danger and who might be next; what ancient ritual governed its murderous actions?

John half hoped that tonight he would have to face the terror himself. If it must come, then let it come soon. He and Hashmi had both been concerned in the desecration of the tomb: they were here together now, and whatever psychic force drove the mummy to seek out its victims must surely guide it to where these two were waiting.

The curtains lifted gently inwards, then fell back like the slowly billowing skirts of a woman.

Hashmi looked up.

“Found anything?” asked John.

“There is nothing.” Hashmi closed another huge tome.

Again the curtains moved. John was directly facing them. He saw the bandaged hand gripping the edge of the velvet. The outlines of the fingers forced through, straining against the bonds, trying to become flexible and free.

Hashmi looked into John’s face and understood. He slid from his chair and edged round the desk.

Suddenly the curtains crashed down. The mummy was framed in the broken window. Its breathing was labored, its movements slow yet as inexorable as a juggernaut.

John groped behind him for the door handle and opened it.

“Inspector . . . !”

Mackenzie moved fast. As John and Hashmi stood aside, two policemen rushed into the room with a huge net. The Inspector followed them in, and watched approvingly as they flung the net. It settled over the mummy’s head and shoulders. The Inspector darted forward and tugged it down. The mummy struck out, but already the net was tightening around it. The policemen held firm as the creature strained against the trap; then, as they pulled on the ropes, it toppled forward with agonizing slowness and hit the floor. There it writhed impotently while John and Hashmi watched.

Hashmi stepped towards the imprisoned creature. Contrition came into his face. A cry of protest was torn from him.

“Stop it!”

Inspector Mackenzie glanced at him in surprise. John put out a hand, but Hashmi was sinking to his knees beside the mummy.

“O Ra Antef . . .”

The mummy stopped struggling and lay still. It ceased to breathe.

“Thou mighty prince of Egypt, son of the Pharaoh of Pharaohs, gaze upon the humblest of thy humble servants, who has transgressed against thee and heaped ridicule on thy head.”

“Hashmi!” John wanted to seize the Egyptian and drag him back, but something prevented him—something nameless and all-powerful, something which demanded that the scales of justice should balance.

“May the memory of my ancestors be erased forever,” Hashmi sobbed, “and the memory of my unworthy self remain only in the minds of vermin and the deceased creatures of the earth. I, who have committed the unforgivable and allied myself with desecrators and non-believers, implore thee to destroy my body painfully, and my soul shall pay penance through all eternity.”

The mummy’s breathing began again, harsh and purposeful. The two policemen, who had been gaping at Hashmi, had let their grip on the ropes slacken. Before they could resist, the mummy had reared up and thrust its arms away from its side. The ropes strained across its chest and then broke.

One of the constables lost his nerve and scrabbled away like an ungainly crab.

The mummy stepped towards Hashmi.

Hashmi’s head sagged to the floor. The mummy raised one foot and set it on Hashmi’s ear, lightly, as though to gauge the distance. Then the foot came up again . . . and down. Hashmi uttered one inhuman sound that was neither a scream nor a plea. The mummy stamped; and stamped again. Hashmi’s head was left as a pulp of blood, brains, and splintered bone.

One of the policemen retched. The other grabbed a heavy inkstand from the desk and nerved himself to creep towards the mummy.

John waited for his turn to come—for the mummy to advance on him and crush him as it had crushed Hashmi. But Inspector Mackenzie and his two men formed a barrier between them. The mummy retreated before their shaky but courageous attack. As they grabbed for the ends of the net, it was twitched from their grasp. The mummy turned and blundered out of the window.

The Inspector followed it out, then stopped. He snapped orders over his shoulder.

“Get Sergeant Walters. Follow that thing—but keep your distance. Smith, find something to cover him up.” He nodded towards the corpse on the floor, then looked questioningly at John in search of inspiration. “Any idea where it could have gone?”

“Apart from the attack on Adam Beauchamp,” said John, “it appears to be revenging itself only on those who disturbed its peace.”

“Then that leaves you and Miss Dubois in danger. It’s left you for the time being. So . . .”

“I’m going after your sergeant.”

“Not on your own,” said Inspector Mackenzie dourly. “I want to be in at . . .” He faltered.

“At what?” demanded John.

“I nearly said . . . ‘at the kill!’ ”

14

T
he basement was more extensive than even the spaciousness of the house above would have led her to expect. Annette stared into the dim recesses and marvelled at the world she had entered. For it was not just the space that took her breath away: there was, above all, the way in which the space had been filled. At the foot of the basement steps crouched a black statue of the jackal god, Anubis, with eyes of obsidian and alabaster. Erect and splendid beyond it, with a lamp burning at its feet, was a gilded figure of Osiris. The walls were obscured by shelves, laden with precious objects. Many of them were familiar to Annette, though she had never seen so many perfect specimens assembled in one place.

She said: “I . . . I can’t believe it. Everything’s in such wonderful condition.”

Adam was beside her as she stopped at one shelf and picked up a magnificent crown. It carried the head of the vulture goddess Nekhabet, picked out in turquoise and lapis-lazuli.

“A Pharaoh’s crown,” breathed Annette.

“It has always been mine.”

Annette replaced it and steeled herself to face him. In this incredible setting she saw the true Adam—or was he now the true Be?

“What is going to happen? You . . . and I . . . what does it all mean?”

He said: “It means that I can die.”

“Adam!” It was the name of a human being, a man of her own day and age, that was torn from her. But now, calm and implacable, he was no longer Adam.

“When your father found the tomb of my brother,” he said, “he provided the means. But it was lifeless. It was left to you—you, my dear Annette—to provide the words that would revive it.”

“To me?”

From his pocket he took the medallion. Before she could ask how it had come into his possession he was gently fastening the chain round her neck.

“While the hand of my brother lives, I must use it. And then we can be together as I wanted. You and I, Annette, together. You said you would come, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said without knowing what she meant.

“Now.” He took her arm and led her to the centre of the cellar, where they were looked down on by the bland animal heads of gods aligned on every shelf. The place, thought Annette hysterically, was like some supernatural toy shop. She wanted to draw Adam’s attention to this; but Adam was no longer the man she had known. He knelt and indicated that she should do the same. His spell was still strong. She obeyed, while all the time her whole nature was trying to rebel. He said: “Repeat after me . . . ‘Awaken, O Silent One, thou who hast slept . . .’ ”