The Parliament of Blood (3 page)

‘Henry Malvern,' she said.

‘So I gathered,' George said, unimpressed.

‘But, he's the manager and leading man at the Parthenon Theatre.' Liz hurried away – ‘I must speak to him if I possibly can.' – leaving George glaring at the unrepentant Eddie.

‘You are supposed to be at home,' George said through gritted teeth. ‘You stole that man's invitation.'

‘Wasn't stealing – I gave it back,' Eddie made a point of looking carefully at George's half-empty glass of wine. ‘Is there anything to eat?'

‘An important actor and a respected gentleman and you took his invitation to get in here under false pretences.'

‘Yeah, all right, fair enough,' Eddie conceded. He nodded towards where Liz was standing with a group of people listening to Malvern. ‘Liz seems to like him though.' Before George could react, Eddie grabbed his arm and
dragged him further into the room. ‘Come on, we need to get a better view than this. Look, Sir William's got a good spot, let's join him over there.'

George followed Eddie through the guests. He was still angry, though he found it difficult to distinguish between the annoyance he felt with Eddie and his irritation at Liz's interest in Henry Malvern.

An expectant hush was falling as everyone began to perceive that the evening's events would soon start. Through it, George heard Liz's laughter, and the deep tones of Henry Malvern. He spared them a glance as he and Eddie passed close to their group. Malvern was holding forth as if he was on the stage – thumb hooked into his waistcoat pocket and free hand gesticulating earnestly. The people round him watched enraptured. Especially the ladies.

Especially Liz. Her eyes wide and fixed on the man. Her mouth open in awe. George felt Eddie tug impatiently at his sleeve, and moved on.

Professor Brinson had returned. He looked less flustered, and was accompanied by a short woman of about the same age. His wife, George guessed, from the way she had her arm linked with Brinson's. She seemed very thin next to her husband's ample form. Her skin was pale and delicate and her hair was piled up on her head – a mousy brown streaked at the sides with grey.

‘Now don't fuss, dear,' Mrs Brinson was saying. ‘I'm sure no one will mind if there isn't a photograph. I certainly shan't. You know I can't abide having my picture taken.'

‘Indeed,' Sir William agreed. He seemed to be trying to stifle a yawn. He caught sight of George and Eddie. ‘Ah, there you are. You're looking well, Eddie.'

‘Is that where it's going to happen?' Eddie asked, pointing at the sarcophagus on the dais in front of them. There was a row of chairs arranged behind the sarcophagus, and several people were taking their seats there. George could see the imposing figure of Sir Harrison Judd settling himself into the seat next to Lord Ruthven.

‘Yes, yes,' Brinson said, rubbing his hands together. ‘I rather think we should start.'

‘Can't see much from down here,' Eddie complained. ‘Why do they get the best view?'

‘You're right, Eddie,' Sir William agreed. ‘We shall see nothing of consequence from down here. If I am to suffer the scientific indignity of having my mummy unwrapped, I do think I should be permitted to see it properly.' He strode after Brinson. ‘I shall join you on the stage, sir.'

Brinson stopped. ‘What?'

‘Oh don't worry,' Sir William assured him, ‘I won't steal your thunder. Just want to see what you're up to.'

Brinson's wife was encouraging the professor towards the dais again. ‘Oh very well,' he agreed with a sigh.

‘Excellent.' Sir William clapped his hands together and looked from Eddie to George. ‘Shall we?'

‘I'm not sure the professor understood you to mean us as well,' George said.

‘My dear George, there is a lot the professor does not understand. But I can't help feeling that is his problem, not
ours. Are you coming?' He did not wait for an answer, but hurried after Brinson, who was already stepping up on to the makeshift stage.

There were not enough chairs now on the stage for the number of people. Sir William took the last chair, leaving Eddie and George to stand beside him. Eddie seemed not to mind, but George felt embarrassed and uncomfortable as he looked out over the mass of people standing watching. He felt that almost everyone was looking at him, though he knew that could not really be the case.

Right at the front of the spectators was the woman in the red dress. George was sure she was watching him rather than Brinson. But he forced himself to look away, to pay attention to the professor who was now coming to the end of his short speech.

‘His name seems to have been Orabis,' Brinson was saying. ‘I'm afraid beyond that we know little about him. Judging by the ornate sarcophagus he was an important fellow.' Brinson paused to wave his hand across the carved figure on the top of the sarcophagus, despite the fact that only those on the stage had a good view of it. ‘Look at this gold leaf. Very expensive, and not to be wasted on just anyone, you know. There is also a lot of silver, here in the details, which I am told is unusual. Perhaps in a moment we will find out more about Orabis.' Brinson stepped back from the sarcophagus. ‘I shall now remove the lid, and we will see what lies inside.'

Sir Harrison Judd volunteered to assist Brinson in lifting the heavy lid. It was a struggle, even with the two of them,
and Lord Ruthven rose to help. Together they swung the lid away from the coffin and set it down at the side of the stage, close to where George and Eddie were standing. The painted eyes of Orabis, long-dead Egyptian, watched George as closely as he imagined the woman in the scarlet dress had done.

Brinson stood at the head of the sarcophagus, looking down at the mummy. It was a crude man-shaped figure, wrapped tight in grey strips of linen. The wrappings were discoloured and stained with age, frayed and torn and ragged. The coverings over the face seemed to have sunk into the rough shape of the dead features beneath. There were shadowy indentations for the eyes, a bump of a nose. The strips of cloth over the mouth had torn and broken, as if to let out the cries of the figure within.

‘Exactly as we would expect,' Brinson said to the hushed audience. ‘Although there appears to be sand under the body, and I think the lining of the casket is perhaps rather unusual.'

‘Unprecedented,' Sir William said, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘The sarcophagus is lined with silver.'

It made the inside of the casket seem to shine with reflected light. George moved slightly so the glare was not in his eyes. He could see the gleaming sides of the inside of the casket quite clearly, but the mummy itself still seemed wreathed in shadows as well as cloth.

The dignitaries on the stage were leaning forward in their seats to get the best possible view. Lord Ruthven and Harrison Judd stood beside Brinson.

‘There is, I see, a chain around the neck. Is that also silver, would you say?'

‘It is,' Lord Ruthven said. His voice sounded strained and nervous.

‘And on the chain is a device, a piece of jewellery or adornment. A simple loop of what seems to be gold with a stem. The device is called an ankh, I believe.' Brinson cleared his throat. ‘Sometimes, jewellery and precious stones were placed between the wrappings. We shall soon discover if that was the case with our friend Orabis.'

He produced a knife from where it had been resting on the end of one of the trestles that supported the sarcophagus. The blade gleamed as it caught the light, and Brinson made a great show of holding it up for everyone to see.

‘Oh do hurry up,' Sir William said quietly.

‘I am now cutting, very carefully, through the outer wrappings,' Brinson announced, leaning into the sarcophagus.

George had a good view of the knife as it sliced through the decaying wrappings. Brinson started at the feet, cutting a straight line up between the legs and to the chest.

‘We must be extremely careful when we fold back these delicate wrappings,' he said. ‘I am now about to make a very careful cut across the head, and soon we will look on the ancient face of Orabis. The first people to gaze upon his visage in four thousand years.'

There was a collective intake of breath as Brinson again leaned into the coffin, stretching out with the sharp knife.

Beside the professor, Sir Harrison Judd cleared his
throat. ‘Perhaps I can help,' he said gruffly. ‘Hold the chap's head still for you.' He stepped towards where Brinson was concentrating on his work.

And as he stepped, Sir Harrison Judd seemed to stumble and lurched sideways, clutching for support. He caught at Brinson's arm, almost regained his balance, then slipped again.

It was not much of a stumble, not much of an inconvenience. But from where they were standing, George and Eddie both had a good view of the result, though Eddie was having to stand on tiptoe to see into the sarcophagus. To see the knife knocked sideways and slicing into Brinson's left wrist as the professor held the side of the mummy's head.

Brinson cried out – first in surprise, then fear as he realised he was bleeding. He dropped the knife, which clattered into the coffin. Clutching his left wrist with his right hand, he raised it slowly. The blood was already welling up along the cut. It ran and dripped, falling after the knife. Splashing on to the bandaged face of the mummy.

The pale wrappings were spattered with red. Drips, then a trickle as the blood ran freely. Sir Harrison Judd was holding Brinson's injured wrist between both his hands, gripping it tight in an effort to stop the bleeding. But the immediate effect was to force out a rush of blood. A cascade falling into the open mouth of the wrapped figure.

Seeing the blood, the people on the stage were standing, gasping. Lord Ruthven produced a handkerchief and with help from Judd tied it tight round Brinson's wrist.

The guests standing in the room below were watching, hushed. The woman in the red dress licked her lips.

But George had no time to wonder at that. His attention was fixed once again on the sarcophagus. On the red-stained face of the figure inside. The wrappings seemed to dissolve. Steam was rising from the points where the blood had dripped, drifting away in a faint mist to reveal the weathered, parchment-like skin beneath. A face cracked and sunken with age.

A face that was moving, turning, looking up at the people above.

Then the wrappings seemed to tremble. George cried out in alarm and fright. Eddie grabbed his arm. Sir William took a step backwards knocking into his chair.

A brown, emaciated hand thrust out through the cloth, clutching at the side of the sarcophagus. Slowly, almost majestically, the ancient figure sat up. The wrappings split apart as it hauled itself out of the sarcophagus. A woman screamed. Then another. People were running, shouting.

In amongst them the ancient, long-dead, mummified figure of Orabis stepped heavily down from the stage and staggered towards the door.

Eddie recovered from the shock first. ‘Blimey,' he said, grabbing George's hand. ‘Come on, quick – after him.'

‘After him? Why?' George's eyes were wide with shock as he watched the nightmare figure disappear out of the back door of the room.

People were milling round, talking and shaking their heads. Professor Brinson had slumped into a chair behind the sarcophagus and was staring through unfocused eyes into space.

Sir William nodded encouragement. ‘Best follow as Eddie says,' he told George.

‘And then what?' George asked. But Eddie was pulling him to the side of the dais, and together they jumped down.

‘What
is
going on?' a woman asked as they pushed past. ‘Well,
really
,' she complained when neither George nor Eddie paused to answer.

‘Actor was it?' a man with a full beard asked. ‘Will there be any port wine later, do you think? Cheese, maybe?'

Again, George and Eddie did not answer. It seemed to take an age to get to the door. There was no sign of the mummy. But George could see a tattered strip of ancient cloth lying on the stairs – part of the wrappings.

‘This way,' he told Eddie. ‘I still don't know what we do when we catch up with him,' he said breathless as they ran down the wide staircase.

‘Ask him what he's playing at,' Eddie said. ‘That bloke was right – it must be an actor. Someone dressed up. Mustn't it?'

‘I suppose so,' George conceded. But it seemed a lot of trouble to go to for a joke. And if it wasn't meant to be a joke, then why …?

Several of the guests were already standing confused and nervous at the bottom of the stairs, blocking the way back to the Great Court. Eddie pushed through the group and ran on.

George paused. ‘Have you seen …' He broke off. ‘Never mind.'

But one of the men pointed in the direction that Eddie had already taken.

‘Thank you,' George said. ‘Keep going!' he yelled after Eddie.