The Deeds of the Disturber (40 page)

"Entertainment!" Lord Liverpool must have thrown his glass down; I heard the ringing shatter of fine crystal. "This is no game, Frank, not to me. It's life or death."

"But Ned—I know, old chap, I know what it means to you, but..."

"But he can't deliver what he promised—is that what you think? You don't believe in his powers, do you?"

"Do you?"

There was a moment of silence. Then the young Earl muttered, "I have to, Frank. I have to. I'll try anything, do anything ..."

"All right, then. I'm with you, old fellow."

"Damn right you are," said the Earl with an ugly laugh. "Through
thick and thin and every penny I own, eh? Don't think I don't know why you stick by me, Frank. I only had one friend; and he ... Ah, don't look so sick. They'll never find us out. And what if they did? Do you suppose the old lady would let a vulgar policeman arrest her great-grandnephew, or her second cousin once removed? Buck up, Frank; finish the bottle and let's get to it."

The only reply from Barnes was a series of gurgles as he followed Lord Liverpool's advice.

Heeding the warning, I glided back into the shelter of the statuary group. The corridor was lit at intervals by oil lamps, and I was fairly sure that in my black cloak, and in the shadow, I would not be observed. In fact, neither man so much as glanced in my direction. Leaving the door open behind them, they walked down the corridor and passed behind the black curtain.

Both were masked and robed. I waited till they were out of sight before I emerged, and hearing no sound within the room they had left, entered it.

It was the strangest place, halfway between the robing room of a theater and the vestibule of a church or temple. Hanging from hooks along the wall were several of the white robes. The door of a tall cabinet, left carelessly ajar, displayed shelves filled with staring masks. There must have been a dozen of them. But it was the sight of the objects on a long table that brought me to a stop, with my heart pounding painfully against my ribs. They were also masks but not copies of the one with which I was so familiar. Heads of ibis and baboon, vulture's hooked beak and lion's snarl—the animal-headed gods of ancient Egypt, molded in papier-mache and painted in bright colors.

I had almost forgotten that ghastly dream. But there were the animal heads, just as I had beheld them in nightmare . . . and nowhere else.

I dared not yield to the hideous speculations that assailed me. Here was my chance of passing unobserved into the very room where the others were gathering. But I had to move quickly, for there were several robes left and I did not know how many participants were yet to come. At any second I might be discovered.

I bundled my cloak into the cupboard and pulled one of the robes over my head. It was a good six inches too long, but that was all to the good, because it would hide my boots. The men had worn sandals, but the others I found, in the cupboard, were all too big for me. Besides, boots can be very useful in a scrimmage.

After examining the bits and pieces of ceremonial attire scattered among the masks on the table, I decided none was sturdy enough to serve as a
weapon; maces, staffs and scepters were of thin wood or papier-mache. It would have been madness to abandon my parasol, so I hooked it over my belt, under the robe, and held it in place with my elbow while I practiced walking. It was a little awkward, but I thought I could manage.

I was ready to go—except for one thing.

His lordship and Mr. Barnes had both worn the priest-mask. There were plenty of them left; Emerson's little jest about a workshop that produced them had not been so far off the mark. They would need a good number of the cursed things; no doubt the priest had destroyed the one he wore after each performance. My hand had actually touched one of the damnable objects when I had second thoughts.

My decision rested on such a fragile strand of evidence—a dream. But in that dream only the high priest had worn the mask with the human features. The others, acolytes and attendants, had worn the animal heads.

Well, I would soon find out whether I had made the right choice. I selected the lion mask—Sekhmet, goddess of love, and of war. It seemed appropriate.

The corridor was as still as death. With stiff, hieratic stride, I paced its length. It was lucky for me no one was watching, because once the parasol got between my limbs and almost tripped me, but I recovered in time. My vision was limited by the eyeholes of the mask, so I could only see straight ahead, and I was conscious of a nasty prickling sensation in the middle of my back.

I lifted the curtain and passed through. Before me was a door, its surface carved in low relief, and gilded. The depictions were most extraordinary.

The latch yielded to the pressure of my hand; in smooth silence the panel swung inward. I came to a sudden stop.

There before me was the very scene of my dream, and I stood, as I had huddled then, on a balcony overlooking a vast chamber.

It was not exactly the same, however. The door had swung shut behind me, and no one appeared to have observed my entrance, so I had a few moments to collect myself.

The room comprised two levels of the original structure; by removing the flooring and bracing the walls with pillars, they had opened up the entire space between the roof and the cellar floor. The walls had been covered, not with polished stone, but with tapestries and hangings. The statue was not twenty feet high, but life-sized, and the deity depicted was not the dignified Osiris. He has a number of names (Min is one of them), but he is easily recognizable by one outstanding characteristic.

The illumination was erratic and not particularly impressive—modern oil lamps, whose wicks all needed trimming, and fires flickering in open braziers raised on tall, rather wobbly tripods. There were half a dozen men present; all were robed and some were masked, but others had removed the headgear in order to puff at a cigar or cigarette. The prevailing mood was far from solemn. One fellow was sprawled on the altar, another had a bottle raised to his lips. Someone pointed at the statue and made a joke I refuse to repeat; a howl of rude laughter followed.

As I scanned the room I realized with a thrill of dismay that one of the masked men had seen me. His mask, which was that of the ibis-headed Thoth, god of wisdom, looked squarely at me. He took a step toward the stairs that led to the balcony.

There was nothing for it but to brazen it out. If he became suspicious and raised the alarm I could never outrun him. More importantly, I had not yet accomplished what I came for. If the girl was a prisoner in this vile den, I could not abandon her.

I had never realized how difficult it would be to descend a flight of stairs with a parasol hooked to my belt. After a near-fatal stumble, I pushed it back out of the way, as a swordsman does with his long saber, and hoped no one would notice my odd appendage.

I reached the bottom of the stairs at last and breathed a sigh of relief. The ibis mask had turned away, and no one else seemed to be paying attention to me. I glided into a handy patch of shadow, with my back against the wall.

One loses track of time under such circumstances. I had no idea what hour it might be, nor how long I waited, trying not to listen to the disgusting language and jests of the others, before one of them tossed his cigarette on the floor and ground it out.

" 'Ere we go, lads," he said cheerfully. "Don't let 'is loverly lordship see you slouchin' around so vulgar-like."

Masks were assumed, cigars tossed into the braziers. The man sprawled on the altar arose and straightened his robe.

Though I cannot truthfully say I was entirely comfortable, the shadow of supernatural terror had lifted from my mind. The reality was nothing like my dream, it was rather a Gilbertian parody of pagan ritual. And the parody continued; instead of a solemn procession, with flaring torches and grim chanting, the two men simply walked through a door under the balcony, and one of them burst out, "What the devil is this? Get rid of that bottle, you—straighten the cloth on the altar—get into your places!"

I stifled a laugh. He sounded like a baritone Mrs. Watson, lecturing her subordinates for untidiness. What sort of ridiculous farce was this to be? Perhaps all I would have to do was unmask and give the lot of them a good scolding.

My amusement was short-lived. The men had shifted positions, following Lord Liverpool's orders; and I saw that ibis-headed Thoth was once again approaching me. I could not retreat without stepping directly into the pool of light from the lamp to my left.

He was a tall man. The mask added another inch or two; he towered over me. I fumbled for the handle of my parasol. But he did not speak, or make a threatening move; he stopped, at my side, and turned to face the altar.

The last vestiges of amusement left me as I watched his lordship. This was no parody to him. He was hideously, tragically in earnest. Raising his hands, he addressed the image; and the hairs on my neck lifted when I recognized the voice that had once hailed mighty Isis, powerful in the word of command.

Suddenly he shouted aloud. "He comes! He comes! The Great One comes!" and dropped to the ground in a profound obeisance. But he was not facing the god.

Masked, and robed in white, with the
sem
priest's leopard skin over his shoulders, he emerged from the shadows under the balcony.

I held my breath. This was the man. Not the pathetic young Earl, who was his dupe and his acolyte, who would (as he had said) do anything, and try anything, that might cure him of his fatal illness. How vilely that creature had played on the boy's fear of death—a boy already half-crazed by the disease that had rotted the tissue of his brain.

The wretch had presence, there was no question about it. Even the hardened hirelings responded, watching in respectful silence the eerie exchange between the young Earl and his mentor. They spoke Egyptian—or, in Liverpool's case, attempted to speak it. The other man's voice, though weirdly distorted by the mask, was slow and sure.

Then he turned toward the shadows from which he had come and clapped his hands three times.

They came singing, in ululating and unharmonious voices. They were naked except for loincloths, and the dark skin of their bodies gleamed like bronze. The form that lay on the litter they carried was still, swathed even to its face in white wrappings.

I could not have repressed the cry that felt as if it would burst my
straining lungs; but as I lunged forward, lips parting, an arm like steel encircled me and a hand clamped over my mouth.

"For God's sake, Peabody, don't bellow!" hissed a voice.

I believe I would have fallen to the ground had it not been for the strong arm that held me. I pried his fingers from my mouth. "Emerson," I whispered. "Emerson ..."

"Ssssssh," said Thoth, the ibis-headed.

The adjuration was unnecessary; joy, relief, rapture, and rising rage held me mute. But if it was not Emerson on the litter, who was it? I knew the answer, even before the bearers lowered it gently onto the long altar and the
sem
priest slowly stripped the veils away.

A murmur of interest and appreciation arose as the poor girl's limp form was bared to the staring eyes of the men. Her costume was a surprisingly accurate adaptation of one an ancient Egyptian female might have worn, but it was not the elegant pleated linen robe of a high-born lady. This was the dress of a servant or peasant girl—a simple shift that ended just above her slim ankles and was suspended by broad straps that covered—more or less—her bosom.

Emerson had transferred his grip from my waist to my arm. Now he gave me a little shake. "Don't move, Peabody."

"But Emerson, they are going to—"

"No, they aren't. Hang on."

No one paid any attention to us; the greedy eyes were all fixed on Miss Minton. One tall, thin individual, wearing the mask of a baboon, began edging forward.

Lord Liverpool bent forward, studying the girl's face. Suddenly he stepped back. His hand went to his mask and lifted it off.

"I say," he exclaimed. "I know her. You told me—"

"She is the selected one," said the solemn voice of the
sem
priest. "The bride of the god."

"Yes, but—but . . . it's Durham's granddaughter, dash it all! You said she would be willing—"

"She is willing." The priest put an arm under Miss Minton's shoulders and raised her to a sitting position. "Wake, Margaret, bride of the god. Open your eyes and smile on your devotees."

Her long lashes fluttered bewitchingly; her languid lids lifted. A singularly silly smile spread across her face.

"Mmmmmmmm," she said agreeably. "Who are all you peculiar people?"

"Greet your lord and your lover, bride of the god," chanted the
sem
priest.

She could hardly keep her eyes open. "Lord and lover . . . oh, yes. How nice . . . Which one of you ..."

'"Damn it, the girl's been drugged," Liverpool shouted. "I can't . . . I won't . . . not to a lady, damn it!"

"I never intended you should," said the masked figure coolly. He let go of Miss Minton, who collapsed onto the pillow with a foolish giggle, and unfastened his leopard skin.

"What?" The Earl's jaw dropped. "You said—"

"The consummation of the divine marriage would cure you," replied the other man. "And so it will—my lord. Of your illness, and everything else that ails you."

Miss Minton raised her white arms. "Lord and lover," she murmured rapturously. "How absolutely splendid. My dear—my dear Radcliffe—"

"Thoth" started violently and let go my arm. "Damnation!" he cried.

His exclamation was drowned by a louder cry from Lord Liverpool. "Damn it, man, you go too far. I won't let you do this."

The other man stepped back. "Of all the cursed nonsense ... I never would have expected you to be so chicken-livered, Ned. Very well. Get out—all of you."

Several of the attendants had already discreetly drifted away, including Mr. Barnes. The Earl doubled up his fists. "She goes with me. I'll see her safe home."

"Like hell you will!" The priest reached into his robe.