The Honey Mummy (Folley & Mallory Adventure Book 3) (6 page)
Read The Honey Mummy (Folley & Mallory Adventure Book 3) Online
Authors: E. Catherine Tobler
“I wonder when the unexpected becomes commonplace.” Eleanor offered Cleo the blanket folded over the arm of the sofa, in case she found the morning too cool. “I suppose when that happens…” She thought of Anubis’s abrupt comings and goings. “Then is when we should worry? Truth be told, I suppose I worry constantly. These past two months, in any case.”
Eleanor watched the way Cleo chewed on her bottom lip, as if she had more to say but could not put the words in the right order. Being in possession of her own such debate, Eleanor did not press, giving Cleo the time she would want someone else to give her.
“Did Mallory bring the other ring with him?” Cleo asked. “The one that was left in the archive.”
“I am certain he has brought it, though he hasn’t said, and won’t let me near him, knowing my penchant for picking pockets.”
“One can’t exactly fault him…”
Cleo’s smile was infectious and Eleanor shook her head. “No, absolutely not. But given that…” She looked at the balcony door, picturing Anubis there even though it stood empty. “There is something else I must tell you. Anubis was here.”
The smile vanished as swiftly as it had come, and Cleo set her teacup aside, as if she feared they might be attacked or set upon at any moment.
“Here?” she asked. “How is that remotely poss—” She broke off, throwing the blanket off to rise from the couch.
“He isn’t…” Eleanor searched for the right word, but had no good way to explain. Cleo had seen what Anubis was capable of, plucking hearts out and turning them to dust as easily as they themselves crossed a room. The panic on Cleo’s face was like a knife in Eleanor’s gut and she was desperate to explain. But she couldn’t.
“I thought this was over and done,” Cleo said, striding for the door. “You gave the rings
back
. Irving is
gone
. Anubis should not be…” She paced in a circle, as restless as Eleanor, then headed again for the door. “Akila is here and Anubis is here and the auction had—” Her metal hand fell to the doorknob with a clatter, and she pulled the door open.
“Cleo—”
“I can’t,” Cleo said and was gone before Eleanor could try to call her back again.
Virgil poured coffee the following morning in the hotel dining room, as Auberon opened a file dedicated to George Pettigrew. The dining room was not yet bustling, the space still reflecting its Egyptian roots even though the British had well and truly taken it over. While white linen draped the tables, the tables were still wicker, and so too the chairs with their generously padded seat cushions. The room itself was generous with both its space and its views; the entire north side of the room sported floor to ceiling windows; the shutters and windows opened to allow the scent of the morning harbor inside. Salt and sea, and not yet the strong fish that would come with the warming of the day.
“Pettigrew and Irving have not crossed paths with that much frequency,” Auberon said, spreading pages across the white linen, “however when they did, it appears to have been at important junctions in Mistral history.” Auberon went on to cite cases Virgil was familiar with, missions to Russia, Algeria, and the forested uplands of Germany. Howard Irving had returned a director from Germany, whatever else had happened there—the files remained sealed, even to Virgil and Auberon.
Virgil filled Auberon’s coffee cup, and then drew a third near to hand when he spied Eleanor across the room. She looked as though she had not slept well, anxious and concerned. Virgil would have paid good money if it meant her mind was eased, but with the abrupt appearance of a new set of rings Virgil didn’t figure any of them would be relaxing any time soon.
“It won’t surprise me if we turn up connections to Irving for the next dozen years,” Virgil said. He poured coffee for Eleanor as she crossed to their table, and added cream and sugar near her place setting, as had already become habit. He liked that it had, that he knew how she took her coffee of all things.
“Gentlemen,” she said, and they rose from their chairs, Virgil pulling Eleanor’s out to hold it as she sat. She was not wearing trousers today, but a slim skirt that still supported a modest bustle. He watched as the ingenious thing collapsed into a neat bundle as she seated herself. Each chair had arms, but her skirt did not overflow them.
“Miss Folley,” Auberon said.
“Eleanor.” Virgil dared drop a kiss against her cheek before rounding the table and seating himself once more. “You don’t look particularly well rested.” He was certain a gentleman shouldn’t comment on such, especially in shared company, but the shadows that clung to her—and not just under her eyes—worried him.
Eleanor clasped her hands in her lap and exhaled. “I have been up for hours,” she said. She sat motionless a long while, then leaned forward to tend to her coffee, adding cream and slowly stirring, then settling the spoon into the saucer. “I had a visit from Anubis.”
This was not the news Virgil expected to hear, nor anything he wanted to hear. He leaned back in his chair as if he had been struck, and even Auberon went still.
“How is that…” Auberon drew himself straighter in his chair. “Anubis cannot…does not?…simply come and go?”
The look Eleanor gave Auberon left Virgil laughing, despite the circumstances.
“I’m not entirely sure who might tell him he could not?” Eleanor asked. She took a long swallow of the coffee and cradled the china cup as she considered. “I thought I was dreaming, but he was very real and quite here.”
“And what did he want this time?” Auberon slid the pages back into the file. “If he was actually here.”
“I believe he was actually here,” she said. She set her coffee cup carefully into its saucer and her eyes met Virgil’s.
Virgil didn’t think he was going to like this one bit, that what she was about to say would involve rings and a quest, but when Eleanor began detailing what she had experienced—the brief, half-explanation of the corroded ring, the flight into the stars within Anubis’s hands—he didn’t know what to think. Had
Anubis
left her the ring? Surely an Egyptian god would not do something as foolish as ransacking the Mistral archive and setting a pile of books aflame.
“He assured you that these rings were not like his own?” Virgil asked. Still, that cold hand closed around his throat. The idea that he would lose her was close, premonition or promise, he did not know. “And yet, said they would carry you.” The ring left in the archive was warm within his pocket, a hard little lump digging into his thigh. “Eleanor—”
“Did you bring the ring with you, Virgil?”
He was certain she already knew he had brought it; why leave it behind when it had so blatantly been left for her? He could only stare at her, giving no other answer, because it was beginning all over again. The fear that swallowed him—the idea of losing her when they had returned whole and well and agreed to a courtship—pushed the wolf against his heart, his throat, and made him jump to foolish conclusions.
“Did you learn nothing from Irving?” he asked. “You said you had no desire to stay in that time, that the mother you knew had gone and that you were well and content to be in the here and now.”
The look that crossed her face was one Virgil never wanted to see again. It wasn’t pain so much as it was disappointment. He knew how foolish the words were, but panic welled up inside of him. He could not fathom a life without her, a life where he once again sank into the hazy abyss opium afforded and denied what he actually was. His eyes flicked to Auberon, then back to Eleanor.
If she meant to go, he could do nothing to stop her. Anubis could come and snatch her away at any moment, proven by this morning alone. Where might Anubis carry her, let alone the rings?
He slid his hand into his pocket, fingers clasping the ring that was warm and rough. He set it upon the table then flicked it in her direction. It rolled unevenly, the corrosion having turned it into more of a oval than a smooth circle. When it came within her reach, Eleanor pressed her hand over it, to halt its wobbling progress. Her eyes held Virgil’s own for a long time before she pocketed the ring and rose from the table.
“Gentlemen.”
With that, she was gone and Virgil felt as though a Paris December blew through the dining room, rather than the warmth of an Alexandrian day.
“I believe if you were intending to convey your unwavering trust in her unerring judgment,” Auberon said, sliding the file to the side as he took up his cooling coffee, “that could not have gone worse, my friend.”
Dear Miss Barclay,
It was a pleasure to receive your letter from earlier this month. I am relieved to hear you are recovering, especially given the nature of your injury. I would appreciate a description of your mechanical arms, should you wish to take the time.
I find it somewhat amusing that your own physician has asked you to approach me with questions, given he is in much closer proximity to you.Perhaps he believes we are closer thanI will do my best to recall what you may need to know. If there are yet gaps in your recollection, you have only to ask.
I was some distance behind you when the ground gave way. You did nothing other than walk across the street when then it crumbled beneath you. Given the way it shattered and your abrupt vanishing, I was cautious in my approach—when I looked down, the space was vast. While it has been deemed too unstable to explore in any detail, I will say it appears to be a catacomb; when I reached your side (your team was smart and fast, Miss Barclay, affixing ropes so we could reach you, summoning Doctor Fairbrass even before that), I found you beneath what looked to be a funerary statue. It could have been Wadjet, but I am not certain. It was cracked down the middle in the fall, but still impossible to move.
I am certain of how I found you: pressed beneath that statue, your arms pinned—I could not move you. The ground was soft, dirt and not sand, and spreading all around you was honey. I would not have believed it, but I knew its scent. Doctor Fairbrass believes this helped save you—when he arrived with more personnel and lanterns, we could see how the honey had prevented you from losing catastrophic amounts of blood. The honey covered you like a blanket—you spoke of feeling like a mummy, and perhaps this contributed. I hope these recollections are of help; mostly, I remember the panic and the darkness and the idea that you were in far worse circumstances than those of us attempting to reach you.
My time in Cairo will be brief; soon I shall find myself back in Paris continuing work with my relatively new partner. I also hope another letter from you shall greet me. I look forward to watching your penmanship improve. Until then, I remain,
M. Auberon
Looking back, Eleanor supposed the sphinxes crouched on either side of the gated entry were a clue as to what they would find beyond. Each limestone sphinx held a golden ankh in its fanged mouth while massive paws enfolded bowls of flickering fire. The sphinxes marked the gate in a grand wall topped with black wrought iron that had been curled into repeating patterns of what appeared to be spreading wings, reminiscent of those borne by Isis herself. These wing formations should have been another hint of what was to come, but nothing prepared her.
The house of George Pettigrew resembled an Egyptian temple, rising tall into the December night sky, complete with a lantern-illuminated colonnade that ringed the entire building. Eleanor could not say which style of Egyptian architecture it was meant to reflect, for everywhere she looked she found clues as to another dynasty. If it were to be classified as Egyptian revival, she rather thought one should not attempt to revive every single dynasty in one fell swoop.
Most shocking—though this was a slim distinction in Eleanor’s mind, indeed—was the house’s color. Once, it might have been a deep rose, but standing under Egypt’s ceaseless sun had worn it into a color that resembled a toxic and glowing orange even in the evening’s light. She had never seen its like and supposed that was something of a blessing.
“Goodness,” Cleo whispered, equally transfixed at Eleanor’s side.
“It’s…” Eleanor fought to find a word.
She glanced at Cleo, hating that they had argued in the wake of Anubis’s appearance, but glad they had both set this aside for the evening. She hated that Mallory had questioned her judgment regarding the rings, too, but couldn’t entirely blame him, given their shared history. The ring nestled in her pocket now; she had no interest in putting it on, only in solving its riddle.
“Enthusiastic.”
Atop the rising columns, a detailed asp circled the entire roof, painted in broad stripes of paint ranging from green, to violet, and gold. Eleanor wondered if it was meant to evoke the image of flowers, as so many Egyptian columns did, but this was more the way a circus tent would be striped, screaming for people to come see the freakish curiosities inside. The front doors likewise beckoned; the ebony wood had been carved with representations on either side, one of Wadjet, the other of Anubis.
The sight of Anubis surprised Eleanor and she found herself taking some comfort in it as doorman welcomed their quartet and ushered them inside where the enthusiasm for Egypt did not cease; everywhere they looked, the house had been fashioned to reflect some aspect of an ancient temple. There were no rooms as one normally knew them, but branching halls lined with columns that eventually opened up into a central gallery.
Here, George Pettigrew’s guests mingled with more costumed Cleopatras around a central, raised staging area that was already home to an assortment of wonders, among them the sarcophagi he had acquired a week before. Eleanor knew a thrill at the sight of them, especially the stunning serpentine stone; she could not recall its like anywhere. She squeezed Mallory’s arm before leaving his side with Cleo, wanting him to know she wasn’t going far, that all would be well, but she could not guarantee the latter at all.
She and Cleo crossed to the sarcophagi to study them as well as they could before they were pried open by Pettigrew and his crew. Several of the costumed Cleopatras carried trays laden with glasses of champagne and sweet morsels of chocolate and honey. Eleanor plucked one of the latter from a tray and popped it into her mouth, unable to recognize the floral flavor of honey as she chewed.
“They are remarkable,” Cleo said and withdrew a sketchbook.
“I don’t think they’re royal, based on these markings?” Eleanor asked around the honey morsel, but Cleo offered no response, busy committing what stood before her onto paper.
Eleanor withdrew her own book, knowing their time was limited. While George Pettigrew was a known associate of Howard Irving, this in no way established that he would open the sarcophagi in a reasonable and responsible manner. If anything, that relationship spoke to a general disregard for proper methods; if Pettigrew’s interests lay in the contents or the showmanship alone, it was likely the relics would be destroyed in their unwrapping.
“I’m not sure I can stand it,” Eleanor said and lifted her pencil from the page. She regarded Cleo, still sketching. “How can we allow him to open these at all?” She ached to touch the serpentine, and the painted cartonnage that was revealed upon one. “These should be in a museum, Cleo, not in the hands of a man who…” She shook her head, at a loss. “Who acquired them for a good deal of money and means to now, what? Destroy them?”
Cleo paused in her own sketching and her mouth split in a smile. “Who can actually explain the rich,” she murmured. “No one can.” But she considered Eleanor’s question and then said, “What would we do to stop him?”
“We haven’t even spoken with him,” Eleanor said. “Surely he might be moved by…” She might have said logic and reason, but a glance around the house told her otherwise. There was nothing reasonable about a place such as this; why should Pettigrew leave these sarcophagi as they were when even now Eleanor spied two mummies in display cases within wall niches. She shuddered at the sight of them, not because she found them horrific, but because they did not belong in someone’s private home.
“What might he be moved to, Miss Folley?”
Eleanor startled to discover Pettigrew at her elbow and she took a step back even as Cleo kept sketching. This evening, Pettigrew was dressed as finely as he had been at last week’s auction, ever in black and white with no shade of gray between. Every line that marked him was sharply defined, black jacket over snow-white shirt; his necktie was in no way sloppy, precisely tied and pined with its circle of jet. Even the smile he offered her was hard like a knife’s edge, white and straight. She let her pencil roll into her notebook before she closed the book entirely.
“Mister Pettigrew,” she said. “Good evening.”
He made a short bow to her and did not repeat his question. He only regarded her with steady eyes that called to mind for her the gaze of Anubis; it studied, weighed, and judged all in a single breath. Those eyes had gazed upon eternity without so much as blinking, and Eleanor was taken aback, both by that idea and the regard within them. She felt broken open and examined, much like the sarcophagi were about to be.
“As to being moved,” she said when he still did not speak, “I only wonder as to your intent with these artifacts. Surely one is hardly above the lowly tomb robber himself, should you break these relics here tonight.”
At this, Pettigrew’s mouth moved in what might have been a smile, but Eleanor took for fleeting amusement only. It was there and then gone. “So I should be moved to keep them whole and intact for…what purpose, precisely? What good comes leaving them as they are? They already lack certain provenance. They have no context, though by opening them, may gain such indeed. Why, the last sarcophagus I opened contained none other than that of Ramesses II who had been quite missing until then.”
Eleanor stood a little straighter at that revelation—not out of surprise so much as outrage. She bit the inside of her cheek so as not to look at the mummies she had noted in the niches earlier. “I spoke too soon, for surely even the thieves who crawl as rats through tombs don’t put such
people
on disp—”
Pettigrew’s hand caught Eleanor’s elbow, squeezing hard. Eleanor swallowed every other angry word she might have said, amazed by the change that overcame her. The jackal was very close, every sense engaged upon Pettigrew in that moment. Eleanor’s attention narrowed to Pettigrew and Pettigrew alone, the way he held himself (as if to spring), the way he smelled (as vexed as she).
“It is not your place to judge,” Pettigrew murmured.
“Nor your place to hold me so,” Eleanor returned. “Release me.”
Pettigrew did and stepped back, as though he had remembered they were not alone. Eleanor forced herself to breathe, to keep her human form and not fall apart and lunge for his throat. She could see the pulse of a vein above his immaculate collar, and wanted only to spill blood over that crisp white shirt. Pettigrew offered her another not-smile.
“Miss Folley, I am ever so glad you came this evening. I am certain we will have much to discuss.”
Pettigrew turned away, and Eleanor pressed pencil to paper once more in an effort to calm herself, to not run after him and ask what he meant. She needed to draw what she could in the little time that remained to them before Pettigrew broke these treasures wide open. Still, her thoughts remained unsettled and the jackal within her restless. This part of herself paced, flicking her tail back and forth, mouth parted in a snarl. She pressed her lips together, to be sure this was not the case as she kept sketching. She was not alone, nor free to act upon the anger that welled up inside her and threatened to slip out in the form of an angry jackal.
She turned her thoughts to her adventures with Christian Hubert, how they had always and ever respected the places they walked, the artifacts they encountered. How they had tried to keep things in their proper places, and how they had taken careful notes if they could not. The same could not be said of George Pettigrew, and try as she might, she could not help but despair over this. There was nothing to be done but watch him and oh she might protest if he overstepped a line, but what good would come of it? This was his home, his event, and everyone else was quite eager at the idea of discovering what the sarcophagi held.
As Eleanor took her seat beside Mallory, it was with a frustrated exhale that drew his curious glance. She could hide little from him, not that she would have tried, given her present emotions. She leaned into his shoulder, trying to organize her thoughts.
“You smell like angry honey,” he murmured before she could say anything.
Heat spread up her cheeks. She could not deny the anger.
“This is not right,” she said. As curious as she was to know what rested inside each sarcophagus, it wasn’t right to open them in this manner. “But Pettigrew will not be swayed.”
Mallory’s hand covered hers atop her thigh, deep in the shadows that cloaked the row of seats, where none might see. “I am reminded of a story,” he said softly, “wherein a young woman claimed four rings of immense power.” Mallory’s fingers traced Eleanor’s fingers one by one, where once the rings of Anubis had rested. “This young woman’s very blood was needed to unlock their complete powers and the man who loved her could only watch as she slid them on and confronted Anubis.”
Eleanor’s anger eased and she shook her head, trying to deny what he was saying, but she could not. She knew and understood even as he continued.
“Sometimes, we can only watch an awful thing. We can only stand outside and let it happen and trust that when we
can
do something, we shall do something phenomenal and good indeed. I am sorry for our argument, Eleanor. For judging you.”
“I would settle for helpful, if not phenomenal,” Eleanor said, and the tension spilled out of her as Mallory squeezed her hand. When he looked from the staging area and toward her again, she gave him a smile that he would know well. “But I would
always
be phenomenal, Agent Mallory. Always.”
“Bide your time, Miss Folley. This too shall come to pass.”
Pettigrew’s unwrapping party was nothing less than a stage production. The lanterns within the room were dimmed before flaring to brilliant life once more; the costumed Cleopatras circled the floor carrying priceless treasures with them. Brightly painted statues of gods rose throughout the room, with carved canopic chests of alabaster, and long oars from boats among them. Men clad in lapis blue leotards and tights carried long bolts of similarly colored fabric through the crowd, shaking the fabric until it rippled like the Mediterranean, while two qanun players plucked notes from their instruments, encouraging the fabric dancers to even more frenzied antics.
Eleanor found herself recalling Auberon’s description of the intruder he had encountered in the Mistral archive. He had mentioned a black leotard, cloaking the figure from head to toe. It was no less than what these male performers wore now, colors notwithstanding. How simple a matter to color a blue leotard black?
The rippling lines of fabric began to draw inward through the chairs, coming to surround the stage with its sarcophagi. Round and round the fabric waves swirled until the men carrying them spilled to the floor; Pettigrew appeared to rise from this shifting water, arms spread as he appeared upon the stage. The crowd applauded, though with a modest gesture, Pettigrew shushed them.
“Ladies. Gentlemen. It is not I who should be applauded, but these marvelous treasures that surround us. See there the mighty oars that pulled the sun-carrying boats through the underworld each night!” The Cleopatras carrying the oars hoisted them into the air, drawing a gasp from most of the crowd. “And here the linen shrouds that once wrapped Seti the first! And here.” He gestured to the Cleopatra nearest to the dais. “The beaded sandals worn by Hatshepsut herself!”
Eleanor stared, not amused.
“This is pure charlatanry,” Auberon murmured.
While Eleanor couldn’t help but agree, she also noticed that Cleo was transfixed by the performance. Eleanor had not known Cleo long, but had never seen her so captivated; Cleo’s eyes were on only Pettigrew, her lips slightly parted, breathing shallow. Eleanor nearly touched Cleo’s hand, to pull her back, but she also couldn’t help but wonder at the reaction. What was it about Pettigrew that drew her? Some would be drawn in, of course, but Eleanor never would have thought it of Cleo, as level-headed a person as Eleanor had ever met.
“Tonight, I bring to you four sarcophagi, having no idea what lies within them. It shall be a surprise for us both—to open their lids and see what awaits—and I think this evening…” He surveyed the crowd as if making careful decision. “Yes, I believe I shall bring four of you very lucky souls up here to assist me.”
