The Soul Scarab
Page 4
By this time, she was feeling a lot stronger and less shaky, due partly to the rest and her new clothes, more importantly to Alice, who seemed to be positively revelling in having a young female guest to spoil in the house.
Although she had her own small but comfortable flat and did not usually sleep in, Alice had little faith in Blake’s hosting abilities and had decided to stay at the house while Meredith was with them. Blake had accused her of setting herself up as a chaperone and had scoffed at the idea of propriety in this day and age – as if anyone cared – but Alice did care, and she had her way.
That evening Alice had a prior engagement to visit a friend, and although she had kindly offered to cancel, Meredith did not want Alice to do this on her account. She claimed to be still feeling very weary and intended to have an early night.
However, later in the long evening, she was not feeling tired at all and the urgent feeling that she was wasting precious time was growing stronger.
It was as she prowled restlessly round her room, turning the television on and off, then distractedly picking up and discarding various magazines that she happened to glance out of the window at the same moment that one of the men was returning to the car. He gave a quick look round first and as his face turned in her direction, she saw it clearly for the first time.
Just for a moment, and then he was ducking back inside the car, so he did not see the slim silhouette in the lighted first floor window opposite give a start of dismay, or her hand creep trembling to her mouth in appalled recognition.
For in a blinding flash of illumination, she had suddenly recognised that dark depraved face with its fleshy good looks; a vicious face which drifted through her uneasy sleep and haunted her worst nightmares!
Shrinking back behind the curtains, she gripped an edge of the soft material convulsively between shaking fingers as her mind exploded into a kaleidoscope of returning memories.
Fourth Year of the King Horemheb
Egypt 1312 BC
The message had come up with the donkeys bringing water and food to the workers on Pharaoh’s tomb. Hatsepi had sent word that her daughter had gone missing. Kenna looked blankly at the boy who tried to avoid his eye. Pain like to that he beheld in Kenna’s face should not be laid bare to public view. The boy could not hide the dirty marks his tears had made in his dusty face and they were answer enough to Kenna’s frantic questions. Only one crumb of comfort could the frightened lad offer – little Sheriti was safe and well and still in the devoted care of her grandmother.
Publicly, Menkheperne haughtily denied all personal knowledge of Tameri’s disappearance. If a foolish peasant girl had been misguided enough to wander off and become lost in the mountains, there no doubt to fall easy prey to a hungry lion, what had that to do with him?
There were some in the village who had no doubt that she had indeed fallen victim to a ravaging wild beast, but one who walked on two legs, not four. It would not be for the first time that a girl had gone missing, but fear of the powerful magician stopped their mouths from making any open accusations.
But evil needs an audience to be savoured to the full. Kenna was told that the High Priest had suffered a change of heart and was prepared to help him. Summoned to a private interview, he humbled himself on his knees before Menkheperne, begging the malevolent one to use his magic arts to help them find Tameri’s beloved body so that her spirit could be laid to rest with all due ceremony. The Gods would weigh her heart in the scales of truth and find it light as the feather of Maat. Thus her admittance into paradise and their eventual reunion would be assured.
The failing priest hated Kenna for his strong, healthy young body with a jealousy which burnt ever fiercer because he could never acknowledge even to himself that he was in any way inferior to an ignorant peasant. But this callow boy had stolen the love of the maiden Tameri, who should have been flattered and not blind to the power of the Great Lord Menkherperne, if she had not already been snared by youth’s crude and transitory charm.
The High Priest received the distraught Kenna in his audience chamber surrounded by the regalia of his office, and disdainfully denied all knowledge of Tameri’s whereabouts. But out of public sight and hearing, he found great satisfaction in taunting Kenna by telling him of his plans, and challenged the stricken young man to accuse him at his peril. Kenna knew what would happen to him if he brought such a serious charge without proof against a high one such as Lord Menkherperne, and he was well aware that no one in the village would be brave enough to stand with him against the High Priest. But how could he live with the dreadful knowledge that the scarab necklace, which he had made for Tameri with his own hands and into which he had poured all his love and skill, was now the means that would bind her for eternity to the evil Priest?
With all his preparations in place, Lord Menkheperne saw no point in dragging out his own demise. Fascinated as he had been by creating pain in others, he had no tolerance for the agonising death that lay inevitably before him. Helped by a draught of his own concocting, he ensured that his own end was swift and painless.
After the laborious process of embalming was complete, the bandage wrapped shell of his body lay in its coffin waiting for the auspicious day when the final part of the complicated rites would take place and the entrance to his tomb sealed.
The night before this ceremony was due to take place, a desperate and grief crazed figure slipped like a shadow through the black wastes of the lonely canyons to where his enemy lay in state. The eerie wailing howl of a jackal stopped the figure in its tracks once, and it was many minutes before Kenna could force himself to move on. For was not Anubis the jackal-headed God of the Underworld, guardian to the dead? Was he aware of Kenna’s sacrilegious intentions and even now preparing to fall on him and drag his soul down to the soul-eater?
What if he did?
Without Tameri in this world or the next, life or death had no meaning for Kenna and his wretched despair drove him on. Gloom hung like a miasma surrounding the tomb, and the tall cliffs on either side echoed with strange voices carried on the wind.
The Medjet, the soldiers whose special task it was to police the tombs and guard the dead, were nervous this wild night and huddled round a fire a little way off in the lee of the soaring cliff face. It was now or never. Fearfully, he edged his way down the flight of steps, and lifted the flaring torch from its bracket on the wall, before venturing along the sloping tunnel that opened eventually into the outer chamber. The awesome granite barrier was not yet in place but many sinister stories about it were whispered in the village. Despite the airless stuffiness of the tomb, the shimmering black wall seemed to emanate a dank coldness that flowed like ice water into Kenna’s bones, making the sweat that soaked his body and ran down his face simultaneously burn and freeze on his hot feverish skin. Creeping up to the great sarcophagus wrought of a strange reddish stone curiously carved, he saw the ushabti adorned with Tameri’s necklace and what he recognised as a lock of her hair. Swallowing back the vomit which rose to his lips, he picked up the little clay figure with loathing, wrenched off the scarab necklace and hurled the hateful thing against the wall with all his force, smashing it to a million pieces.
Almost immediately from the passage came the sounds of hurrying footstep, something had alerted the Medjet and now they ran into the chamber, their naked swords unsheathed. The uncertain light from the smoking torches they carried, cast wavering shadows on the wall murals, animating the painted figures. The beast headed demons of the underworld appeared to move in closer, crowding round the terrified boy, licking their blood stained lips.
Out of his wits with despair, Kenna picked up a jeweled dagger lying amongst the grave goods. He would not be caught alive and suffer the excruciating death ordained for those who violated the tombs of the dead, but first he must thwart Menkheperne’s monstrous ambitions. Before they could prevent him, Kenna threw himself at the bandaged corpse of the High Priest, stabbing and slashing with all his remaining strength.
Now these Medjet had failed in their duty and their only escape from a protracted and painful death was to conceal this violation so that no one would know. Their Captain, who was a Nubian and unconcerned with the possible retribution of the Egyptian Gods, was determined to hold his men together. No one else would go near, so he covered the mummy himself to disguise the damage. At the same time he gave orders to ensure that on the morrow, there would be fewer torches than usual for the priests, and those would gutter and smoke. While to another, he gave the lesser task of getting rid of Kenna’s body so it would never be found. Luckily for them, the crocodiles were always hungry.
The former High Priest had been hated and feared, even by his own colleagues and his last rites were performed with uneasy haste. There was a brooding quality in the chamber, and the other priests did not stay any longer than was necessary in the strange chill of the stuffy tomb. As they hurried back to the bright sunshine of the outside world, eager to seal the entrance, a curious reverberation was heard. The priests and their retinue shifted uneasily as the sand under their feet quivered. A muted rumble echoed chillingly around the tall cliffs surrounding them, as deep underground, Menkheperne’s great granite wall ground ponderously into place. The funeral procession fled in superstitious panic.
The guards took unusual pains to make sure that no one attempted to break into Lord Menkheperne’s final resting place.
Such was his reputation even after death, that no one ever did.
Chapter 3
Even as Meredith drew back into the shadow of the velvet curtains, a large silver car turned into the drive of the house opposite and an elderly man got out and let himself into the front door. Quickly she turned her bedroom light off and returned to the window. Pulling the material fractionally aside just enough to see out without being seen herself, she watched as windows sprang to life where lights were switched on, marking his random progress throughout the house.
After a few minutes, all three men got out of the blue car; one slouched unhurriedly up the drive and round to the back of the house. The other two walked boldly up to the front door and rang the bell. There was a momentary wait and then as the front door opened, they hustled quickly inside.
It was something in the furtive way that the last man in took a quick look up and down the street, before following his companion, that decided her.
There was something wrong, she knew there could be no good reason for those particular men to be there. Without any conscious thought, she flew down the stairs, slowed cautiously past the study and slipped quietly out through the front door. The house attracting all the dubious attention had originally been a sizeable Georgian villa, but at some time in the past, the insatiable demand for homes in London had prompted an imaginative developer to convert it into two, more manageable properties. Her mind working furiously, she crossed the road, walked briskly up the drive of number 6B and rang the bell.
There was a short, busy silence and the door slowly opened. The owner of the house who had let himself in just a few minutes ago, peered round the edge of the door with frightened, watery eyes. She noticed his gold framed glasses were set slightly askew on the end of his nose. He was short, rather plump, designed by nature to be a bluff and cheery type, but now his hand shook as he reached up to adjust his spectacles, and his face was blotched with angry colour. Perspiration beaded his forehead. Obviously terrified, the man’s mouth worked speechlessly, his eyes pleading, and she plunged into her hastily assembled excuse for calling.
‘Good evening, sir, I wonder if you would be interested in making a small donation for the sick animals appeal?’
He stared at her, his eyes desperately speaking a message his mouth dare not utter. Then he jumped nervously and managed to stammer, ‘So sorry, only just returned … no change … must go …am in rather a hurry don’t you know … must go … so sorry.’
‘Are you sure…?’ began Meredith, but the door was already shutting smartly in her face.
She walked slowly back and turned up the drive of the house next door. Keeping as close to the hedge as she could and praying that there was no one at home, she crept past the garage and then wriggled through the dividing shrubs into 6B’s rear garden. The evening was rapidly drawing in by now and as she cautiously looked round the corner of the house, she saw the telltale orange gleam of a glowing cigarette stub flickering in the dusk. The third man was lounging negligently against the kitchen door. She also noticed a pile of logs stacked neatly under a shelter against the wall.
Mmm, handy! The girl they called Meredith smiled grimly in the gathering dark and bent to pick one up.
Seconds later, she was stepping gingerly over the heap of suddenly unconscious guard. The back door had already been forced open, proof enough that something was seriously wrong, and she slipped silently into the house.
Luckily, there was no light on in the kitchen or in the hall, and taking a few minutes to orientate herself in the dim interior, she realised that the men were gathered in the room next door. Probably the dining room, as she could see the outline of a serving hatch limned in light on that side of the kitchen. The doors of the hatch were not quite shut and creeping closer, she squinted through the narrow crack into the room beyond.
The man whom she had recognised had his back to her and seemed to be directing operations. The elderly owner of the house was roughly tied to a chair despite his pathetic pleas and protests, and Meredith knew she would have to think fast if she was going to rescue him unscathed from these thugs.
The kitchen did not seem a very safe place to stay, so, soundless as a ghost, she crept into the hall and up the stairs. On the landing, through one of the open doors, she found a bathroom in considerable disarray. The airing cupboard door hung open, sheets and towels strewn in carelessly jumbled heaps around a ransacked suitcase. The lid had been slashed and was gaping wide, its contents of garments and toiletries dumped unceremoniously onto the floor. So far, she had not seen the lady of the house, but signs of her existence were evident in the debris on the floor, where a torn make-up bag revealed several lipsticks glinting through the spilled face powder.
Inspiration!
It might do, but would it be enough? More like a suicide mission, she thought grimly, but that would not be for the first time.
These were superstitious men and at the very least, it would cause a diversion. Quick as thought, she stripped off her shoes and outer garments and wound a white sheet around her body. Ruthlessly pulling out the band that confined her unruly hair, she ran her fingers through the curly masses until it streamed out wildly around her head and then liberally sprinkled talcum powder all over herself. Taking off the dressing, she deliberately rubbed the barely healed cut on her forehead until the blood ran down her face (stopping briefly to admire the shocking effect against the powdery white of her skin) and wiped her gory fingers over the white sheet swaddling her breast - adding a few slashes of deep crimson lipstick for good measure. She dared not turn the light on to see more clearly what effect she had created, but she could do no more, now her spectral apparition had to make its debut.
Floating silent as an actual phantom back down the stairs, she could hear that the harsh voices and painful sounds coming from the dining room were getting uglier. Back in the kitchen, she located the fuse box, closed her eyes, and gently slipped the switch to off.
As all the lights went out, she quickly fell to hands and knees and scuttled into the dining room. Her eyes were already adjusted to the dark and enabled her to keep out of the way of the bulky figures loudly cursing and crashing round the room in confusion. She made for the french windows; outside in the night sky the moon had risen and was gently reflecting a shivery, cold white light
into the room.
Abruptly, she stood up so that her figure appeared suddenly as a black silhouette in front of the dimly lit windows. The gang froze, petrified by a hissing sibilant whisper that echoed strangely and oddly sinister in the silent menace of the moonlit room.
‘Foul jackals, I have come for you at last. Do you not remember Ghalida? Cowardly murderers of my body, you will suffer all the torments of hell when I take my revenge.’
If there had been confusion before, there was absolute pandemonium now.
However, one of the thugs had enough presence of mind to fumble for his torch and shine it directly on Meredith’s face.
Here was the reckoning, as she knew well enough that her impromptu disguise would not hold up for a moment under close scrutiny. Steeling herself not to flinch, her posture automatically assuming attack mode, she glared straight back into the truly terrified eyes of the men before her.
Their reaction was unexpected. To her utter amazement, both men backed hurriedly away before making a stumbling dive for the door. One dropped his torch and the other knocked over the prisoner’s chair in his headlong flight to get out of the room. Both arriving at the doorway simultaneously, they stuck there for a moment causing further panic as they jockeyed furiously for position. Finally bursting into the hall like a cork from a champagne bottle, a crash from the kitchen door and a series of thuds, groans and yelps of pain led a stunned Meredith to surmise, correctly, that the men had reached the garden and fallen over their unfortunate colleague. Hampered by the necessity of dragging their wounded with them, she heard sounds of a laboured stampede to the car and then the urgent roar of an engine starting up and driven furiously away with a crash of gears. Gradually, the screech of tormented tyres receded into the distance.