Roderick shrugged. "Oh, I just opened one of them up and had a look."
"You what!?" The old Earl's face grew suddenly panicked. "You opened the boxes!?"
"Just one of them, Uncle."
"What in God's name for?"
"I was curious. They've been up there for as long as I can remember, and I just wanted to see what was in them, that's all."
"Did you touch it?"
"The box?"
"The mummy, you idiot, the mummy!"
"What, touch a moldering old corpse?" He laughed. "I rather think not."
"Tell me the truth, Roderick, please! No games, now, please!"
He was somewhat perplexed by his uncle's sudden agitation. "That is the truth, Uncle. I opened one of the boxes, took a peek inside, and then shut it again. Honestly."
The old Earl heaved a sigh of relief. "Then listen to me, my boy, and give me your word, in front of this witness." As if it were an afterthought happily had, he said to Pearson, "Get the Bible from the dressing table. Give it to the boy." Pearson complied, and the old Earl said, "Place your hand on the book, Roderick, and listen to me very carefully. I want your solemn oath, your word as a Christian gentleman."
Roderick, who had never given religion a moment's thought and who had no idea what it meant to be a gentleman as the old Earl used the word, said, "Certainly, Uncle."
"I want you to promise me that you will never sell the mummies, never donate them, release them, or in any other way relinquish ownership of them. Promise!"
"I promise, Uncle."
"I want you to promise me that you will never open the boxes, never touch the mummies in any way for any reason."
"I promise."
"I want you to promise me that if any circumstance ever arises, any circumstance at all, which necessitates the selling of the manor and the lands, you will not leave the mummies here. I want you to promise that you will take them with you from this place and bury them, deeply, very deeply, secretly, with no marker, no publicity no knowledge of the act by anyone save yourself."
"I promise."
The old Earl held his gaze. "Swear by Almighty God."
"I swear by Almighty God."
The old Earl nodded, somewhat, though not fully, contented. "Roderick, there is a teakwood box from India in the safe where the family documents are kept. After my death I want you to read the materials in the box. Pay careful attention to them. There is a document written by your great-grandfather which contains information which each successive Earl of Selwyn must know. Read it carefully and then put it back. When and if you marry and have an heir, be certain that he reads the document as well. And you must extract from him the same promises I have just extracted from you. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Uncle, I understand perfectly."
He nodded again. "Good. Now get out of here, both of you, and let me die in peace." He sank deeper into his pillows and closed his eyes.
Roderick and Pearson left the room quietly and closed the door softly behind them. "Master Roderick—" Pearson began.
"Shhh," the young man silenced him, motioning the solicitor to follow him down the hall and away from the old Earl's door. They walked in silence through the corridors of the old mansion which was soon to be Roderick's possession. They came at last to one of the upstairs sitting rooms. "Well," Roderick said at last, "what on earth was that all about!"
"Master Roderick," Pearson gushed, "thank you ever so much for denying my complicity in this. I don't know what I would have—"
Roderick dismissed the solicitor's gratitude with a wave of his hand. "Oh, it was nothing. From the looks of him, he's not going to be around long enough to cause any trouble anyway." He smiled with a small degree of genuine sadness. "Poor old bugger."
"Still, I am deeply appreciative. If there is ever anything that I can do—"
"Well, you can tell me how the negotiations have been going."
Pearson seemed not to understand. "Negotiations. What negotiations?"
"The offers to buy all that old junk Uncle has stashed away upstairs." He smiled at the look of incredulity on Pearson's face. "Oh, come now, old fellow, you don't seriously expect me to be bound by a promise extorted from me by a half-dead old man, do you? Why, I doubt the old boy is in possession of his faculties anymore."
"But—but—you gave him your word. You swore." Pearson, a devout Methodist, seemed unfamiliar with Roderick's brand of religious indifference.
Roderick shook his head. "An act of kindness to a dying man, nothing more. When a man on his deathbed asks you to promise something, you promise it. No one would seriously expect you to abide by such a thing." He laughed. "And what a promise. My God, you'd think those boxes contained chemical weapons or something, the way he talked."
"Yes, but still"—Pearson was troubled by his part in so egregious a deception—"His Lordship's wishes were quite clear on this point."
Roderick patted Pearson sympathetically on the shoulder. "I know how you feel, Pearson. I really do. You've served Uncle for—how long has it been?"
"Thirty years, sir. And my father served His Lordship's father before him, and my grandfather your great-grandfather."
"Yes, well that's my point exactly, don't you see? Soon I shall be the fifteenth Earl of Selwyn, and I expect you to be as faithful to me, to the new Earl, as you and your family have been for generations."
"But His Lordship—"
"Is not long for this world. And then I shall be His Lordship." Roderick smiled. "So let's not waste time on this foolish regret, shall we? The rubbish up in the attic—"
"Antiques and works of art are hardly rubbish, sir!" Pearson pointed out deferentially.
"Eye of the beholder, my good fellow, eye of the beholder. They are useless to me; therefore they are rubbish. I have no need of them, no desire to possess them. And better to sell them than to toss them away."
"Begging your pardon, Master Roderick," Pearson said tentatively, "and meaning no disrespect, but if that's the way you feel about the collection, why not just leave it as it is, where it is, I mean, and leave it intact to your heir?" He shifted nervously. "When there is an heir, I mean. I mean—"
Still affable but obviously verging on impatience, Roderick shook his head. "Really, old boy. The matter is closed. Now tell me: have there been any responses to the notice?"
"Oh, yes, certainly," he replied, fumbling in his briefcase for a folder. "I brought the offers with me to show to you in the event we had the opportunity to discuss them." He paused. "Still, after His Lordship—"
"Now, now, no more about the old Earl. Just tell me who has been offering how much for what."
Pearson extracted a few sheets of ledger paper from the folder and looked at them quizzically. Then he clicked his tongue and muttered, "Damn!"
"What's wrong?"
Looking up, he said, "Oh, uh, nothing of moment. You know that the contents of the collection are numbered—inventory purposes, or something of that nature—and when I instructed my secretary to prepare a list of the offers, she did so as if the pieces were to be auctioned rather than sold privately."
Roderick sighed. "Pearson, whatever are you talking about?"
"Well, sir, I have the offers and the amounts, but they are listed by item number, not by item description. What I mean is, I know what has been offered by the prospective buyers, but not what the offers are for."
"Let me see that." Roderick took the papers from Pearson's hands and glanced over them quickly. "No problem. We'll just go up to the attic and match the offers with the numbers."
"Oh, that's hardly necessary, Master Roderick. I can simply have Gladys do this over tomorrow by item and not by number. There's no need—"
"Yes, but I don't want to wait until tomorrow I'm dying of curiosity." He strode to the door and Pearson followed unwillingly behind him.
They encountered Fredericks, the butler, at the foot of the stairs leading from the fourth floor of the mansion to the attic, and the old servant bowed sligh
tly and asked, "May I ask if your meeting with His Lordship went well, Master Roderick?"
"Oh, yes, certainly. As well as might be expected under the circumstances."
"I fear he will not spring back from this latest illness with the same alacrity he has shown in the past." The butler's tone was regretful.
"Well, we can always hope, Fredericks," Roderick said cheerfully. "But you must excuse us. We have some inventory to examine up in the attic."
Fredericks did not move from the foot of the stairs. "May I assume that you are referring to the collection, Master Roderick?"
"Yes, indeed," Roderick replied as he walked past Fredericks, Pearson in his wake, and began to mount the stairs. Then he stopped, realizing that the old butler might have some notion as to the cause of the old Earl's peculiar preoccupation with the seven mummies. "By the way, Fredericks," he began, turning to him, "how long have you been with the family?"
The butler drew himself up proudly and replied, "I began to serve His Lordship the same year that King Edward VII passed away."
Pearson gasped slightly. "My God! How old are you, man?"
"What year was that, Pearson?" Roderick asked. "Edward VII died in 1910! I do not mean to impugn . ." Fredericks smiled slightly. "Allow me to explain. I had the honor of being His Lordship's whipping boy when we were children."
"Whipping boy!" Roderick was astonished. "Are you trying to tell us that my uncle had a whipping boy!?"
"Oh, most assuredly, sir. The thirteenth Earl was a very old-fashioned gentleman. My father was butler to the thirteenth Earl, and he counted it a singular honor to have his son appointed to that post." He paused slightly. "As did I, of course."
"So it was your childhood association with my uncle which led to your becoming his butler?"
Fredericks seemed surprised, and slightly annoyed, at the question. "Surely you know, sir, that my family has been providing service to your esteemed family for over three hundred years!"
Roderick realized at once that he had been told this sometime or other, but he had paid no attention to it. "Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me."
Fredericks seemed slightly mollified. "As I am certain you are aware, your chauffeur, Geoffrey, is my nephew."
"Yes, yes, of course, of course," Roderick said, though he had no idea this was the case. "Let me ask you something. You've been with my uncle for so long, you might know the answer."
"If I can be of help, it would be my pleasure."
"I just had the most bizarre conversation with him about certain pieces in the collection. Uncle seems to have an almost obsessive concern about the mummies. Do you know of anything which might explain that?"
Fredericks looked at him uncomprehendingly. "The mummies, sir?"
"Yes, the mummies. In the collection upstairs."
The butler shook his head. "To the best of my knowledge there are no mummies in His Lordship's collection."
"But of course there are. I saw one of them myself, not two weeks ago." Fredericks continued to stare at him in confusion. "Surely you have seen those seven crates up there, haven't you?"
Fredericks's face lit up with sudden understanding. "Oh, the crates! Yes, certainly. I'm sorry, sir. I had no idea what was in them. Mummies, you say? That's very interesting."
"Yes, well, do you know anything about them?"
The butler shook his head. "No, sir, not a thing. They were there the first time I ever had occasion to go into the attic. To the best of my knowledge they've been there for generations. At least, I don't recall anyone ever having said anything about the time or means of their acquisition." He stopped and his brow slowly furrowed.
"Something?" Roderick asked. "Do you recall something?"
"Perhaps," Fredericks said pensively. "You have stirred a memory in me, sir, about an incident a long time ago. Back during the war, it was."
"Which war?" Pearson asked. With men as old as Fredericks one had to ask such questions.
"The second one, Mr. Pearson," he replied. "I remember thinking at the time how odd it was, but of course I never asked, and, well, so much else was happening—"
"What is the incident?"
"Well, sir, you know that His Lordship's late wife and son died when a German buzz bomb hit the estate in—let me see—late in 1941, I believe. It fell to me to call His Lordship at the War Office in London with the news, and . . ." He stopped speaking, as if seeking to clear away the cobwebs of memory.
After a few moments Roderick asked, "Well? What happened? Get on with it, man!" This mild irritation was as angry as Pearson had ever seen Roderick.
"Well, sir, I recall that when I finally reached him, I told him that the estate had been hit, and before I could say another word he ordered me, almost in a frenzy, to check and see if any damage had been done to the seven crates in the attic. I tried to tell him about Her Ladyship and Master Richard, but he wouldn't allow me to speak. In fact, as I recall, he shouted at me, 'You goddamned bloody fool, get up to the attic and examine those crates!' He was quite agitated, sir, and I hadn't even informed him of the death of his wife and son."
Roderick listened pensively. "Then what?"
"Well, sir, I did as I was instructed. I examined each of the seven crates and found each to be securely sealed and locked, as always. Then I returned to the phone and told him so. He said 'Thank God,' or words to that effect. Then I discharged my less happy obligation." He paused and shook his head. "I never did understand that, Master Roderick. I would think that if a bomb hits a man's home, his first concern would be for his family, not his artwork."
"Yes, one would think so," Roderick replied. "Well, thank you, Fredericks. You've been most helpful."
"My pleasure, sir," Fredericks said, bowing slightly.
Roderick proceeded to ascend the stairs, Pearson following two steps behind him. As they rounded the landing which separated the two flights, Pearson said, "A most peculiar tale."
"Yes, but Uncle is a peculiar fellow. I don't really understand it at all." He paused for a moment. "Say, Pearson."
"Yes, Master Roderick?"
"You don't think there's something valuable locked up in those crates, do you? Gold or silver or something?"
Pearson shook his head. "It isn't likely, sir. Precious metals could be more easily and safely stored than by packing them away in the attic."
"Yes, but what if it isn't coins or bars? What if it's jewelry or loose gems? What if it's something we can't even imagine?" He was obviously relishing the possibility of unexpected treasure. "What if—"
"But sir, you opened one box yourself. You found nothing in it but a mummy."
"Yes, but I only opened one of them." He proceeded to leap up the stairs eagerly. Pearson heaved a sigh of regret and followed after. He reached the attic door just as Roderick, who had turned the key in the lock, was pushing it open. "Come on, Pearson, hurry up. Isn't this exciting?"
"Yes, Master Roderick," he muttered.
The two men moved through the attic which housed the Selwyn collection. To call it a collection was technically accurate, but the implication of an organized, displayed, cherished private museum was totally misleading. The Earls of Selwyn had been accumulating works of art for generations without the slightest urge to do anything with the pieces they acquired other than to lock them away in the attic. The pieces were numbered and listed, of course, as was everything else of value at Chudley; but once their presence had been registered, they were stored haphazardly. Paintings leaned in thick stacks against the wall. Urns, statues, busts, and boxes of miscellaneous objects lay everywhere. Enough armor was present to outfit a cortege of knights.
Roderick walked quickly through the room, knocking over a Renoir, hopping over a bust of Caracalla, to get to the seven crates which rested upon the floor near the south wall of the room. He was impervious to the effect the room had upon most people who entered it, such as Pearson at that very moment. The room smelled of age and ancient dust. In its dimly lighted atmosphere an aura of some strange s
anctity seemed to pervade everything, even the most mundane of objects.
Pearson stood motionless, drinking in the antiquity, allowing waves of romanticism to wash over him.
"Pearson! Come, help me with this!"
Roderick's command interrupted his reverie. "Oh, yes, sir. Coming."
Pearson found him struggling to insert the edge of a crowbar under the top plank of one of the crates. "Get that other tool and work on the other end, will you? That's a good fellow." Six of the crates were stacked one atop another, with the seventh crate lying beside them. It was this seventh crate, the one offering the easiest access, which Roderick had opened previously. He seemed determined now to open the rest, already having cut the binding ropes.
Pearson went to work on the crate with a shrug of resignation. This somewhat silly man was soon to be the fifteenth Earl of Selwyn, and as such represented the source of a sizeable percentage of the income of Pearson's firm. One of the earliest lessons he had learned in his law career was that eccentric clients must be catered to.
They managed to loosen and then remove the crate cover in a few minutes. Much to Pearson's chagrin, another box lay within the one they had just opened. "Oh dear," he sighed. "Is this nailed shut also?"
"No, not the coffins." He grinned at Pearson's discomfort. "Well, they are dead people, after all. You don't just dump them in a hole, then, do you? They must have coffins." He reached into the box and drew open the coffin lid, which was apparently much lighter than one might expect. Pearson knew enough to know that coffins of any age or nation would be built rather sturdily. But Roderick had flipped up the lid without the slightest difficulty. He could tell from the sigh which issued forth from the young man that the treasure of Croesus had not found its resting place in the crates in Chudley's attic.
"Damn," Roderick muttered. "It's just like the other one!"
"How do you mean, sir?"
"Well, come here and look."
Pearson smiled nervously. "I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you, sir."
"Don't be silly. It can't hurt you."
"With all due respect, Master Roderick, that's hardly the point. I'm not particularly fond of the—shall we say, the grotesque?"
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