The Sands Of Time Part 23

'Fine,' he said. 'I can't cope when you're in a mood like this. I might as well go now.'

She said nothing as he got dressed. He paused in the doorway. 'I'll call you tomorrow,' he said. 'I love you.'

The sound of the car woke Tegan from her feverish sleep. Her mouth was dry, and she was sober enough to know she needed a drink of water or she would have a hangover the next day. She tugged on a T s.h.i.+rt Vanessa had lent her, and creaked down the stairs hoping she could remember the way to the kitchens. It was not until she had taken her third wrong turning that it occurred to her she could have got a gla.s.s of water from the bathroom.

The corridor looked exactly like the way to the kitchen. It also looked exactly like the previous corridor. And the one before that. Neither of them had taken Tegan where she wanted or expected. This one was no exception. She exhaled loudly, and in desperation flung open a door she knew was not going to take her where she wanted to go.

She was right. But as she stepped into the dark room to pull the door shut again, the pale light from the pa.s.sageway fell across a bookcase just inside the room. Tegan stood poised on the threshold, and as her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could see more bookcases and cabinets arranged around the walls. And the room smelled. It was a dry, musty smell. The smell of a place not dusty for years, and unoccupied for longer. Intrigued, Tegan felt round the wall inside the door until she found the light switch. The light seemed filtered through the specks of dust that hung in the air and Tegan's fingers were coated with a sheen of grimy black from the switch. The dust was catching in her dry throat now, and she was even more desperate for some water.

She did not venture further into the room. As she had seen, bookcases lined the walls. The uncurtained windows were smeared with dirt and grime, reflecting an imperfect darkened image of the room back at Tegan.

A murky image of herself stood poised in the doorway. The centre of the room was dominated by a large reading table like the one in the library. The rest of the floor s.p.a.ce was almost covered with boxes and piles of magazines, journals and books. Everything was layered with dust.

Tegan glanced along the nearest bookcase, reaching out and wiping the labels on the shelves. One had been attached with sticky tape that was now so yellow and brittle that it flaked away as Tegan's hand touched it.

The label fluttered to the floor. But Tegan's attention was on the other labels and the t.i.tles of the books. One shelf was labelled: Jackson Jackson Laboratory (from 1929) Laboratory (from 1929). One of the larger volumes on the shelf was t.i.tled The Lane List of Named Mutations & Alleles of Polymorphic Loci of the The Lane List of Named Mutations & Alleles of Polymorphic Loci of the Mouse Mouse. Most of the others were too dusty to read the spines.

Tegan looked down at the piles of papers and magazines. Here was a set of the Journal of the Reticuloendothelial Society Journal of the Reticuloendothelial Society. There was a pile topped by volume ten of the Revista Brasileira de Genetica Revista Brasileira de Genetica. She shook her head and turned to leave.

Her hand was on the light switch when she saw the rows of specimen jars.

She was already in the process of turning out the light as she began to realize what the shapes floating inside the discoloured fluids might be. She was trying to think of an excuse not to switch the light back on again when a car went by on the road outside. The headlights flashed across the ceiling of the room, and Tegan pulled the door shut behind her.

She concentrated on finding the kitchen, tried to dispel the memory of what she had just seen as the after-effects of the party. In the rea.s.suring light of day, that would probably be how she would remember it.

After a few minutes she had managed to retrace her steps to the stairs.

Starting again, from there she found the kitchen almost at once. Relieved, she downed three tumblers of water straight off. It made her throat feel better, cool and moist. But she could feel the water slos.h.i.+ng around in her stomach, and that made her feel a bit queasy again. You can't win, she decided as she refilled the tumbler to take back to bed.

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As she turned the tap off, Tegan heard movement outside in the corridor.

'h.e.l.lo,' she called, catching sight of a figure as it pa.s.sed.

There was no answer.

By the time Tegan got to the door, the figure had reached the end of the corridor. It was Vanessa, dressed only in a plain, white, ankle-length night-gown. She turned the corner and disappeared from sight without looking back. Tegan shrugged. Probably in the same state as she was.

Vanessa's eyes were wide and blank as she unlocked the back door. Her movements were slow and measured, as if she were under water. She drew back the bolt and slowly opened the door. 'Thank you, my child.'

Sadan Ra.s.sul stepped into the house. Vanessa did not react, her eyes remained set and unseeing. 'And now you will take me to the bas.e.m.e.nt room.' Vanessa nodded slowly, then turned and set off down the corridor.

Ra.s.sul followed close behind. In his hand he carried a small stone statuette. It was about eight inches long, the features picked out in gold against the black of the stone. It was a likeness of the jackal Anubis, G.o.d of the dead.

Sir John Mapleton did his final round of the antiquities room before locking up. His collection was vast, one of the largest in Europe. He could remember where and when he had acquired every single piece, and usually how much he had paid for it. Someone had been round the previous week suggesting he catalogue it all on computer, but Mapleton didn't need a computer. He had a complete catalogue in his mind.

He flicked a speck of dust from the top of one of the display cases, and turned off the main lights. Moonlight streamed in through the windows down one side of the room, throwing strange shadows across the floor.

Somewhere behind him, a door banged. But Mapleton ignored it. He was staring across the room.

In the centre of the room, a single display case still glowed. He must have forgotten to turn off the lamp. Inside, the heavy bracelet he had paid too much for at Sotheby's many years previously rested propped up at an angle on a perspex stand. The scarab beetle on the top glowed blue in the faint light.

He made his way carefully over to the case, picking his way through the shadows which seemed to twist and turn as he approached. He was half way across the room when the moon went behind a cloud and he realized that when he switched out the light in the case he would be in utter darkness. He cursed quietly and turned to make his way back to the main switches.

But then he stopped, and looked back at the case. He was sure he had turned the lamp off. In fact, now he came to look, it seemed as though the illumination emanated from the bracelet itself rather than the spotlight in the base of the cabinet. He frowned, took a step forward, and collided with something solid.

In the faint blue glow of the bracelet he could just make out the edges of the huge shape beside him. Odd, there was no cabinet here. Mapleton reached out to feel what it was, and his hand closed on what felt like coa.r.s.e linen.

He shook his head, and rubbed at the material. There were no mummies in the room, they were all at the other end of the wing. This room was strictly for smaller relics, jewellery and household artefacts.

He was still puzzling over the problem as he felt the shape move under his hand. At the same moment the moon came out from behind the cloud, sending rays of pale light dancing across the room.

The mummy was turning towards Mapleton. It was ma.s.sive, towering over him as he pulled away. Its arms reached down for him as he staggered back, his hand pressed to his mouth. Then the rough bandaged hands closed on his throat, pressing down, pus.h.i.+ng him to the floor.

The bracelet glowed more brightly as the mummy turned towards it. It stepped over the figure sprawled across the floor, and lumbered over to the display case, its arm raised. As it reached the case, it smashed its heavy arm downwards, shattering the gla.s.s of the display. cabinet. Shards and splinters tore at the bandages as the mummy reached into the case and took hold of the bracelet. A strand of cloth ripped away from the hand as it pulled it out.

The mummy left the same way as it had come in, through the smashed remains of a side door. It crunched heavily across the gravel of the drive way to where a Ford Transit van waited, the back door open.

Sadan Ra.s.sul took the bracelet carefully from the service robot. The servicer bowed, and climbed into the back of the van, bending almost double to fit inside.

Ra.s.sul carried the bracelet with both hands to the open driver's door. On the seat was an open wooden box, the inside lined with satin. He placed the bracelet inside, then closed and locked the lid.

A few moments later, the van drove off into the moonlight.

Egypt, 1798 Captain Jean Tombier led the general deep into the building. He had led him first to the pyramid itself, and then inside the maze of pa.s.sageways found and cleared by the archaeologists.

The general had carefully avoided the rubble which still littered the floor, and had seemed unperturbed when a swarm of bats swept past them squealing in rage. He followed Tombier in near silence towards the heart of the pyramid, blazing torch held high so that he could see the magnificence of the edifice, could marvel at the colour and intricacy of the graphics on the walls.

Now they stood at last outside the King's Chamber, the centre of the pyramid. 'We are here, sir.' Tombier made to enter the chamber, but he felt the general's hand on his shoulder, pulling him back.

'I think not, Jean,' the general said. 'This I must see alone.' He smiled in the gloom, and patted Jean's shoulder. Then he turned, and was gone.

Tombier waited for what seemed like hours. At first he could hear the general's boots ringing on the stone floor of the chamber. But after a while the sound stopped, and he was alone with his breathing and his thoughts.

His torch was burning low. If they did not start back soon, they would not have enough light to find their way to the entrance. Tombier bit at his lower lip and weighed up the unpleasant alternatives: risk having to grope out of the pyramid in darkness, past the fallen rubble and the bats, round the sudden holes in the floor that dropped away forever; or brave the general's wrath if he disturbed him without good cause.

He was reaching the point where he thought he had good cause, when there was a sudden blaze of light from inside the chamber. Brilliant whiteness blazed out into the corridor and imprinted a negative image of the doorway on Tombier's retina. 'Sir,' he shouted, 'general!' and stumbled towards the doorway. He collided first with the wall, and then, just as his eyes fought to re-adjust, with the general as he left the chamber.

'What was it, sir? What happened, what did you see?'

Even in the dim light, his sight washed out by the sudden flash, Tombier could see that the general was pale as death. His hand shook as he pushed his hair out of the way. He seemed to notice, and pushed it inside the front of his jacket. 'Nothing,' he said eventually, 'I saw nothing.'

'Nothing? But the light - I saw -'

'I tell you, there was nothing. Nothing happened here. If anyone asks, I went into the chamber, stayed a few moments, then left.'

Tombier stared at him. He would not question the orders of his general, but clearly something was wrong.

The general clapped him on the back and tried to smile. Instead his mouth stretched into a grimace. 'One day, perhaps, I will tell you about it. One day I may be able to discuss it with you over a cognac while armies burn behind us. One day, perhaps. But not today.' He turned and looked back towards the entrance to the chamber. 'No,' he said softly, 'not today.'

Tombier led the way out of the Great Pyramid in silence. It was the only time that he saw Napoleon Buonaparte afraid.

Chapter Eleven.

The next morning Tegan was not at her best. She survived the cottonwool cloud that was breakfast, feeling revived by copious quant.i.ties of orange juice washed down with strong coffee. By the middle of the morning she was feeling decidedly better, and eagerly agreed to accompany the Doctor when he suggested he was going to examine Nyssa again.

Atkins was waiting for them in the hall. Probably, Tegan thought, he was a bit bored and lost. But of course he did not show it, any more than he showed any real emotion.

Within a few minutes, it was Tegan who was feeling bored and lost. The Doctor was listening for Nyssa's heartbeat with an ear trumpet pressed to her chest. 'Best not to disturb anything at this late stage,' he said when Tegan asked if they could remove some of the bandages. She desperately wanted to see Nyssa's face again, to check that she at least looked well and peaceful.

Disappointed, she wandered despondently round the room, glancing at the various relics on their shelves and tables. Atkins was examining some of them in detail, apparently fascinated by the pieces. Tegan gave each a cursory glance, then moved on. Only one of the exhibits she looked at did she find at all interesting. It was a bound collection of the notes and drawings from Kenilworth's expedition. She flicked through it, noticing odd torn pages from Simons' notebook which had been glued on to larger sheets and then bound in with the other notes and sketches.

'Hey, Doctor, look at this,' she called at one point, but he merely grunted and continued his examination of the inert body.

'Please yourself,' Tegan grumbled, looking round to see if Atkins was interested. But he seemed engrossed in a display of necklaces. Tegan looked again at her sketch of the excavations outside the pyramid entrance, then she closed the book and moved on.

She turned to watch the Doctor as he leaned over the coffin. He was now wearing a stethoscope and seemed to be listening to Nyssa's arm. He nodded with satisfaction, coiled up the stethoscope, and stuffed it into his pocket. The he dashed round to the other side of the sarcophagus and started tapping on the edge. Tegan could see she was in for a long wait, and leaned back against the red velvet of the curtain behind her. She could feel the wall straight and hard behind the curtain. And she felt it give way under her weight.

Atkins grabbed Tegan's elbow as she slipped in surprise. 'What is it?' he asked.

'I don't know. The wall wobbled.'

Atkins pushed experimentally at the curtain close to where Tegan had been standing. 'You're right. There's some give in it certainly.'

The Doctor was frowning across at them. But he had stopped his tapping on the coffin and seemed to be paying attention.

Atkins went to the corner of the room, and hunted around for the edge of the curtain where it met the one covering the next wall. The curtains were all fitted to tracks set into the ceiling just in from the wall. Atkins pulled at the edge of curtain, and drew it back a few feet, revealing the wall behind.

Tegan stared in amazement, and even Atkins seemed surprised.

The Doctor stepped down from the dais and crossed to join them.

'Interesting,' he said quietly. 'Very interesting.'

The wall beneath the curtain was actually a plasterboard part.i.tion, probably erected as a skin for the real wall behind and several inches away from it.

The board was relatively thin, and wobbled if any force was applied to it. It was covered in painted hieroglyphics.

'You know what this is?' the Doctor asked after they had spent a few minutes examining the paintings.

'Yes,' said Tegan. 'It's weird.'

The Doctor shook his head. 'A little eccentric perhaps, but not really weird.

Atkins?'

'It's a copy of the tomb,' Atkins said simply.

'Exactly.' The Doctor stepped back and waved an arm round the room, gesturing at the other walls. 'They've painted a copy of the interior of the tomb. Probably from Kenilworth's expedition's notes.'

'The notes are over there.' Tegan pointed to the book she had been looking at. 'But why bother? And who did it?'

'Oh just a bit of fun, probably. Or perhaps an attempt at some context and authenticity for the mummy. Either Prior did it, then changed his mind about the ambience and put up the curtains, or one of his predecessors had the paintings done, and someone later didn't think much of it.'

'So someone, if I understand you correctly, Doctor,' Atkins said, 'for whatever reason, created an exact replica of the original tomb?'

The Doctor nodded. 'Or rather, they think they did.' He pulled back the curtain from a section of the adjacent wall. 'But we know one thing they'll have got wrong, don't we Tegan?' He grinned widely and pointed to a cartouche half-way up the wall. Then his smile froze. 'I don't like that,' he said.

'What's wrong, Doctor?'

'Nothing, that's the problem. This name is exactly as it is in the actual tomb.'

Atkins nodded. 'That does seem reasonable, Doctor.'